


Deducing Daisies

by LlamaWithAPen



Category: Pushing Daisies, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "the facts were these", Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Confusion, Crime and criminals, Death, Deductions, Emotional Dilemmas, Feels, Friendship, Gen, Holmes and Watson, Humor, Inexplicable Magic Powers, Lots of deducing, Lots of sarcasm, Love, Magic, Murder, Ode to Pushing Daisies, Omnipotent narrator, Random coming back to life, Rules, Sherlock AU, Talking To Dead People, The Science of Deduction, You've been warned, and bad jokes, death (kind of), imagine Jim Dale reading this to you, keep in mind that characters you know and love might not be strictly speaking alive, puns, strange, that's not weird shut up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2018-02-10 19:39:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 169,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2037471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LlamaWithAPen/pseuds/LlamaWithAPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you could touch someone and bring them back to life? </p><p>Sherlock Holmes, the Detective, is a seemingly ordinary man with an extraordinary gift: he can bring the dead back to life with a single touch. This impossible - well, make that this <i>highly improbable</i> - gift, along with Sherlock's incredibly deductive mind, have made it possible for him to become the most successful detective anywhere.<br/>But of course, every gift like this comes with a catch. In this case, a deadly and time-dependent catch.<br/>One touch gives life, the second touch takes it away again forever.<br/>And should the dead remain distinctly not dead for more than a minute, then someone else has to die.</p><p>With a gift like this, there have to be rules, and Sherlock Holmes has abided by these rules all his life.<br/>The most important Rule?<br/>Caring about people gets them killed.<br/>Therefore, caring is not an advantage.</p><p>… But every rule has an exception.</p><p>A Sherlock-Pushing Daisies crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue, and The Time Heretofore Known As The Present

~ Prologue ~

Young Sherlock was eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes old when he discovered that he was nothing like anyone else.

It took him an additional fourteen minutes to come to the conclusion that being different—well, being different like he was, at least—was simultaneously a tremendous gift and a terrible problem.

It took him a final thirty seconds to shut everything and everyone out.

 

~o~O~o~

 

At the tender age of eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes, Young Sherlock was sitting in his bedroom, ignoring his chores.

This was not unusual. Young Sherlock was wont to spend significantly more time letting his imagination run wild than focusing on all the boring, important things people would have him do. After all, what child is going to focus on summer homework and taking out the trash when the mysteries of the universe lie in wait under their nose, waiting to be solved?

And so this is how it was that Young Sherlock was sitting in his room, avoiding tedium, when his destiny crashed into his bedroom window and died.

Young Sherlock looked up at the sound of the bird colliding with his window and, in seconds—because he was exceedingly bright, curious, and talented at observing while everyone else was merely looking—he had determined that it was a common house sparrow, that his window was slightly cracked, and that the poor thing had broken its neck on impact.

Wasting no time, Young Sherlock grabbed his favorite blue scarf and tied it about his neck in spite of the fact that it was 29 degrees Celsius that afternoon, and he snuck downstairs past his father's study and his mother's parlor and ran straight to the section of petunia bushes directly below his bedroom window, where a dead sparrow now lay.

At this time in his young life, Young Sherlock had never been in close proximity to a dead thing before. But because he was young, exceptionally curious, and extremely bored, Young Sherlock was not fazed by it. Just interested, and a little sad. But, Young Sherlock reasoned, he should honour the little thing by learning as much as he could about it, and then using said knowledge to prevent a similar incident from occurring ever again. As he stood there, looking at the bird’s body, he was already trying to determine the best way to alert birds to the presence of the pane in his window (in a way that would conceal the large crack in the glass from his father as well, as it would undoubtedly become a 'big deal').

But for now, the little dead bird itself presented a much more important thing to think about.

Carefully, not at all daunted that this was the first dead thing his hands would ever touch, Young Sherlock ever so gently lifted the sparrow in his hands.

There was a faint, golden light.

And the sparrow raised its head, let out a cheep, and leapt up, flying around and around his head, and then up into the trees.

Young Sherlock had brought a dead sparrow back to life with a single touch.

He was able to conclude that, oh yes, _he_ had done this, from a few simple deductions in the course of the next fourteen minutes as he watched the sparrow flit about the elm by his window.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The facts were these:

 

The bird had definitely suffered blunt force trauma upon hitting his window. Enough to kill.

The crack on Young Sherlock's window—spanning three inches across—was evidence that the collision should have killed it.

Furthermore, the bird had not had a discernible pulse for the brief second he had touched it.

It had not reacted to his approach.

It was not struggling as a living animal would have.

It had not been breathing.

It had simply gotten up and flown away.

When he touched it.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Thirty seconds after the dead bird got up and flew away, Sherlock's brain began analyzing.

This was impossible, but Young Sherlock's mind had never before been limited by the bounds of what was and what wasn't possible, and it wasn't about to be now. There was no box, there were no instructions, there was no manufacturer's warranty explaining how any of this worked. There was no obvious cause.

It just was. But that didn’t matter to him.

Sixty seconds after the dead bird got up and flew away, a second bird dropped out of the sky. A dove, at his feet.

It took Young Sherlock the remaining thirteen minutes (of the fourteen minutes it would take for him to come to the conclusion that this was simultaneously a tremendous gift and a terrible problem) to deduce that the life of the house sparrow and the death of the dove were connected.

By him.

Because during those thirteen remaining minutes, Young Sherlock began touching dead blades of grass and watching them burst into life while their neighbors browned. He reanimated his mother's abused petunias and watched her beloved tea garden roses shrivel. And while all of this should, by rights, be completely impossible, it did comply with Newton's Third Law. Newton’s Third Law stated quite clearly that every action had an equal and opposite reaction, and while that was written about motion, Young Sherlock reasoned that it could apply to just about anything. Why not life itself? And when you've eliminated the impossible (because it seemed impossible that the house sparrow had not fatally collided with his window, or that the dove had simply dropped out of the sky for no good reason, or that he was just witnessing some sort of bizarre universal phenomena and the glow he was witnessing had nothing to do with him), whatever remains, however improbable, must be true...

And when the house sparrow returned to him from flitting about the bushes, Young Sherlock stretched out a hand to it—his bird, his 'friend', the only thing that yet knew of his gift—and the moment his fingers met the little bird's wing, the bird died with a shock of darkness.

Young Sherlock touched the sparrow again.

It did not rise. It did not get up and fly away again.

Young Sherlock tried again.

The sparrow was well and truly dead this time.

Another dove somewhere in the garden sang a few sad notes that sounded like a funeral dirge for Young Sherlock's childhood.

It took Young Sherlock five more seconds—bringing him to the fourteen minutes—to determine the way his gift worked.

One touch gave life. Second touch took it away again. Forever.

But in exchange for giving back life, something had to die if the life he'd restored lingered too long.

For longer than one minute, to be precise.

Unless what had been brought back to life was sent back again with a second touch.

In short, his touch could restore life to a dead being, but could only do so without consequences—deadly consequences—for exactly sixty seconds.

All of this became apparent to Young Sherlock in a span of fourteen minutes.

And in thirty seconds more, Young Sherlock had concluded that this was a secret that he could _never_ , _ever_ share with his parents, his brother, any members of his family, fellow students at his school, anyone he saw on the street or, in short, anyone. Because the gift to give life was something people would go mad for.

And Young Sherlock couldn't be responsible for taking it away from someone else.

And people, surely, could do stupid things, like kill people to bring other people back to life, when they care about others.

He could do stupid things. Like become a murderer in trying to stop people from dying.

People he cared about.

So it was at this moment, at eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and fifty-one minutes of age, that Young Sherlock vowed he would never again care about another human being.

~o~O~o~

I: The Time Heretofore Known As The Present

Young Sherlock's life, forever removed from any possibility of normality by his childhood discovery of his life-restoring-death-giving Gift, was irrevocably changed.

His parents had sent him off to boarding school where he was out of the way and theoretically content, and Sherlock had never again permitted himself any sort of emotional attachment to anyone. He lost any sort of semblance of patience with people of average- to less-than-average intelligence; he was single-minded to a fault. Extraneous detail was hardly worth his time.

Sherlock was alone. As he had to be. And when he had nothing to do, he would remember just how alone he was. And that just wouldn't do. So Sherlock kept his unbelievably clever mind filled with practical information that could lead to work, experiments, distractions, occupation.

He became obsessed with knowledge.

And he became obsessed with solving murders.

Twenty-five years, six months, nine days, one hour, and eleven minutes after his destiny crashed into his bedroom window and died, in a time heretofore known as "Now", Young Sherlock was no longer Young Sherlock.

He was thirty-three years, nine months, thirteen days, twenty-hours, and forty-eight minutes old.

He was alone.

The boy had grown into a man.

And become the Detective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!  
> I've had this idea for an eternity but was never quite brave enough to write it. But, uh… time to get brave?!  
> I'm also very new to the site, and this is my first ever AU, so I hope it isn't horrible. XD
> 
> Reading, commenting, and kudos-ing (?) and anything else are hugely appreciated -- it tells me I should keep going! XD
> 
> I am a university student working on her thesis (ughhh), so updates will be irregular/as often as I can make them!  
> EDIT: Updates (most) Mondays!
> 
> Thanks! Cheers,  
> ~Becca


	2. The Man in the Morgue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note of caution: avast, thar be dead people ahead  
> (nothing graphic, but I do want to forewarn people anyway)

At this very moment in London, the Detective was sitting in his flat scowling at his mobile, which had chosen this moment halfway through his experiment on post-mortem blood coagulation to ring.

After a few seconds of truly infuriated glaring, which did nothing to silence the phone, Sherlock sighed and picked up. "Truly not in the mood, Lestrade."

"That's funny, because neither am I. But there's a matter of potential national security that has your name written all over it. Bart's in twenty, all right?"

Sherlock grunted once in response and hung up, miserably setting aside the tray of toes he had in front of him and corking the opened bottles in his chemistry kit. How could he refuse Lestrade? Dull as the well-intentioned, fumbling idiot of a policeman was.

Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was, after all, the sole keeper of the Detective's secret.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Lestrade came to know about Sherlock's Gift in the following manner:

 

Sherlock Holmes had presented himself to Detective Inspector Lestrade with a proposition that they cooperate on cases of a particularly challenging nature. Lestrade had initially thought this was all rather hilarious—because really, it takes a certain, special kind of nerve to specify that you only want to help when you feel like it, and the Yard didn’t work with pompous private detectives. But it was hardly a secret that budget cuts and general incompetency made an extra pair of hands hard to turn down around the Yard.

Still, Lestrade wasn't an idiot. He wasn't sold right away.

Sherlock Holmes came across as a sarcastic, rude, and irritable sort of fellow, standing in a long coat with a scarf bundled around his neck, his collar turned up in a fashion that made him seem either pretentious or vampiric. But, on closer inspection, Holmes' credentials were largely chemistry-based, with some forensics, making him at least an interesting candidate. His name was floating around on the internet in connection with the resolution of some small cases. A few robberies, one or two missing-persons…

So, Lestrade had reasoned, it was worth a try.

"Okay," he had said, sitting back at his desk. "Let's give it a go. Next case I get, I'll call you in. I'd like to see how you work."

Sherlock was an instant goldmine.

Lestrade had called him up three days later with a particularly perplexing locked-door homicide. He'd chosen the case for a few reasons. For one, cases as gruesome as these tended to scare away the amateurs. Secondly, there would certainly need to be a lot of evidence bagged and collected, meaning the whole team would be called in, which offered a prime opportunity to see how the newcomer interacted both with the crime scene and with the rest of Lestrade's people. And finally, there was the simple fact that Lestrade had _no idea_ how the victim had been killed. So there was nothing wrong with an extra set of eyes.

So it was that three days, two hours, and twenty-seven minutes after Sherlock Holmes first introduced himself to the DI, Sherlock Holmes entered the crime scene.

And so it was that three days, two hours, and twenty-nine minutes after Sherlock Holmes first introduced himself to the DI, Sherlock Holmes solved the case, proved it, and obtained a confession from the murderer.

It only took Lestrade an additional forty-nine seconds (thirty-eight of which he spent staring in open-mouthed wonder at the Detective, who simply stood there and turned up his collar while the murderer was handcuffed) to accept Sherlock's offer of business.

It didn't take long before Lestrade was calling Sherlock to "consult"—this was how they termed it, Sherlock calling himself a consulting detective—on over half of his cases. And Sherlock never once failed to solve them. It didn't matter what the case was about, how complicated it was, or how bizarre the circumstances of the crime were. Sherlock always deduced the answer.

While many of his people could hardly contain their lack of enthusiasm every time Sherlock appeared, and Sherlock was admittedly a pain in the arse to deal with, all Lestrade could focus on was how quickly his division's successful conviction rate was going through the roof. So he swallowed his pride, and so it was. Their partnership was born.

And then, it happened.

_It_ happened.

Lestrade remembered everything.

The case had been a particularly weird one, involving several plastic flamingos and a pitchfork. All anyone could get out of it was that, somehow, someone had impaled a woman with a wide variety of garden implements, and the entire thing was one ridiculous mess. So, naturally, Lestrade phoned Sherlock.

The Detective had come in, taken one look at the crime scene, and taken out his pocket magnifier, bending low to examine a few of the flamingos.

"He shouldn't _be_ here," Lestrade's forensic technician, Anderson, had hissed (as he always did at least three times whenever Sherlock was called in). Clearly the workplace envy was flaring up early with this case.

Sherlock had turned to glare. "Lestrade, I'm not willing to deal with stupid today. I will talk to you, but I will not talk to someone with a mental capacity inferior to one of these plastic lawn ornaments, so if you would…" And he waved his hands in a dismissive little gesture at Anderson.

Anderson puffed up and prepared to start firing back insults, but Lestrade hurriedly ushered Anderson from the room, placating him all the way. Lestrade had then led Anderson out of insult-hearing range, assured him that Sherlock would be lectured for his behavior (a lie, but a well-intentioned lie, on Lestrade's part), and then he had returned to the unattended Sherlock.

And then stopped, frozen in shocked disbelief, at the door.

Because Sherlock was talking to the victim.

The dead victim.

And the victim was talking back.

"Yes, hello," Sherlock had said flatly to the impaled woman, who was looking in amused wonder at the flamingo sticking out of her ribcage, "I only wanted to check – it was your neighbor two doors down who murdered you, correct? The overzealous marigold enthusiast who runs the homeowner's association for the neighborhood. Not a fan of gaudy plastic flamingos, I expect."

"That's right, she hated them," the victim had said, with a nod. "Though I think killing me was a bit of an overreaction, don't you—"

"Whatever you say," said Sherlock in a tone of utter disinterest that thoroughly did not make sense in connection with the fact that he was conversing with a dead person, and with that he lightly poked the woman's cheek.

There was a flash of darkness, and the victim slumped back to the floor, just as dead and impaled as she had been two minutes before.

It took Lestrade a good twenty seconds to remember how to talk, and still another minute to figure out what to say.

"What the _hell_ did you just do?" Lestrade had demanded, and the Detective had looked up at him in horror.

After a lot of explanation and a few beers, Lestrade had come to grips with Sherlock Holmes' abilities and Sherlock had reluctantly been forced to reveal his Gift.

DI Lestrade proposed a new and improved partnership.

Murders are, after all, much easier to solve when you can ask the victim who killed them.

The Detective agreed.

 

~o~O~o~

 

This was how, at this time known as "Now", the Detective was in a cab pulling up to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where he got out and strode in to the morgue, the collar of his long black overcoat popped up and his signature blue scarf knotted around his neck. His icy blue eyes were shockingly bright under his mess of curly dark hair. Coupled with being tall, thin, angular, and as haughty-looking as ever, Sherlock Holmes somehow fit in just perfectly at the morgue.

He met Lestrade—a man in his mid-fifties, with grey hair, a decent build, and (at the moment) an impatient expression on his worn face—in the hall just outside the morgue.

"If this has anything to do with the missing businessman we discussed on Tuesday, he's not dead, he's simply taking a long and very illegal holiday with his mistress in Orlando," said Sherlock by way of greeting, and Lestrade eyed him.

"And you know that… how?" said Lestrade.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "You'd think his personal secretary's mid-grief trip to America would give it away, Lestrade. Obvious. She was dropping dollar bills while at the vending machine in your office two days ago. And today, she's gone."

Lestrade regarded him for a minute, finally shaking his head and whistling. "All right, I'm impressed. You don't even need to talk to the poor sods to solve half of these cases, never mind if they're dead or just on an illegal holiday."

Sherlock snorted. "If my ability to solve crimes was entirely dependent on being able to make the dead come alive again, I would be in the business of séances, not criminal investigation."

"All right, all right…"

"I _am_ actually intelligent, unlike the vast majority of the people you employ," said Sherlock, abrasive as ever. "I rely on deduction, not on the dead. The whole… ‘reanimation’ aspect of things is a method of fact-checking, not a crutch."

Lestrade backed down. He almost always did. "I know that. Christ, it's not like you haven't proven you're capable a hundred times already."

Sherlock sighed. "I'd hardly be worth your time otherwise. But you need me, and you know it. If you want a thoughtless dimwit, discuss this matter of so-called 'national security' with your forensic technician."

"Stop poking fun at Anderson."

Sherlock suddenly perked up, looking at Lestrade. "Are you going to let me work on those suicides?" he demanded. "Is that what this is about? I haven't seen anything looking quite that interesting since—"

" _No_ ," Lestrade interjected, crossing his arms forcefully over his chest. "No. I do not need you butting in on that one. So you can stop asking."

"But," Sherlock said, a hint of whining entering his tone. "But it looks so interesting. So when can I start?"

"Not why we're here, Sherlock…"

"But when are you going to admit you can't figure it out and let me in on the suicides—"

"Uh, I'm not, because they're just that," said Lestrade, interrupting. "They're just suicides."

"They're not random suicides, Lestrade, they're—"

"NO, no, don't tell me," snapped Lestrade, hands over his ears for emphasis. "I don't need my mind infested with your voice as the voice of doubt."

"Voice of reason," grumbled Sherlock.

Lestrade dropped his hands exasperatedly. "Just - shove off, all right, I know you're intrigued and all, but I might have a mutiny on my hands if I let you get your hands in every case. You definitely don't need to be a part of a string of suicides."

"Serial suicides," whispered Sherlock sourly.

" _Shut up_."

"Then let's just get to the _point_ , Lestrade," lamented Sherlock, thoroughly wishing he was at home studying his tray of toes.

Sherlock generally preferred the company of his experiments and empty flat to the company of actual, living people.

People talk too much. They ask too many stupid questions.

It seemed a pointless exercise to interact with people when he had no intention of getting to know them on any personal level.

Remember: Rule Number One.

Caring is not an advantage.

Lestrade took a patient breath, leading the way down the hallway to the morgue itself. "All right. Now, I don't know if we'll have much access, and of course there's already a formal inquiry. But, you and I both know you'll have better insight than typical investigators."

"Obviously."

"In a nutshell, the government’s foreign intelligence office received a call from some bloke overseas claiming he had information concerning a terrorist threat. A major terrorist threat, focused in London. But he wouldn't talk unless he could be guaranteed asylum and protection here. So—"

"This seems awfully high-profile, Lestrade," said Sherlock, his polite tone not quite masking his interest. "How did you find out about this?"

"Because they just put everyone in the Yard on high alert for any sort of activity that might be in line with the guy's warnings," said Lestrade. "And because the informant's dead, and no one ever got any information out of him."

"Ah," said Sherlock, his hands in his pockets. The reason he was here became rapidly apparent. "So, will I speaking with him? The dead informant."

But to his surprise, Lestrade shook his head. "That's the real problem. The problem for us. There's…" Lestrade sighed, wishing he had nicotine patches handy. Or a donut. As much as he'd become accustomed to Sherlock's Gift in the last few months of working with him, being in the morgue and anticipating communicating with dead people gave him the heebie-jeebies. "… well, there's nothing _left_ of the guy _to_ talk to."

Sherlock stopped walking, turning to glare at Lestrade. "Then _why_ I am here? You weren't seriously hoping that I could poke some charred remain and have it spontaneously spill all of the man's secrets? It doesn't work that way, as you should well know. I need an actual body to work with. Or most of one. How about you give me a _useful_ case, Lestrade, something actually _interesting_?"

"Let me finish!" Lestrade cut in, holding up his hands. "Look. The informant isn't an option, but there's someone else you might be able to get something out of. And at this point, it's enough of a threat that it's worth a try."

" _Who_ ," said Sherlock flatly. The case at hand remained interesting, but only insofar as he had nothing more diverting to occupy his time. Sherlock did not, however, appreciate being dragged in simply because he was convenient. He didn't like being used for his Gift. It was, after all, more or less the reason his Rules existed. So that no one _could_ use him as a tool. But this was Lestrade, so Sherlock didn't really have a choice.

Still, a terrorist threat in the heart of London… It could be promising, he couldn't deny that.

"The med—" started Lestrade, just as the morgue door opened.

"Oh. Oh, hi, Sherlock, hi," said a cute, blonde woman in a lab coat, who promptly turned very pink at the sight of Sherlock. "I didn't realize you were coming in. I—"

"Hello, Molly," said Sherlock dutifully, completely disinterested.

"Hi," she said again, quite clearly flustered. She looked at Lestrade and hurried to say hello to him as well, even more pink. "Hi Greg. Everything all right?"

"Just fine, yeah," said Lestrade, trying to ignore the fact that, in spite of being someone of actual rank and authority, he somehow always turned into Sherlock's assistant whenever they worked together. "We were actually just hoping to catch you. Are you on your way out?"

"Me? No, no, it's no trouble," replied Molly predictably.

Molly Hooper was always available whenever Sherlock was involved. She was the one who gave them access to bodies in the morgue, she was the one who helped Sherlock get his various toes and appendages when he needed them for an experiment, and she was the one who always stayed after-hours to help them out in a pinch. She was a friendly mortician, and wasn't at all invasive. She was reliable, and always willing to help, though she was (thankfully) completely ignorant of Sherlock's gift.

She was, in Sherlock's opinion, convenient, and he didn't give her much more thought than that.

"What do you need?" Molly continued, holding open the door for them.

"We were hoping to get a look at the guy who came in last night," said Lestrade. "The soldier."

"Oh," said Molly, looking a little sad at that. "Of course. It's so sad, it really is, it's _so sad_. I've been calling and calling, trying to locate family, but no luck. It just seems so sad…"

"I know," said Lestrade, glancing at the silent Sherlock. Lestrade still found anything like this unsettling at the very least, and downright depressing at most. But Sherlock was always impassive.

"We just wanted to see him," said Lestrade. "Part of an ongoing investigation."

"Oh…" said Molly, just the slightest bit hesitant. "I… well, I'm sure it's okay… I mean, strictly speaking you need family permission and stuff like that, but since I can't find anyone… And, I mean, there's an open investigation, so…"

"This will only take a minute," said Sherlock.

Literally, one minute.

The Detective was not one to exaggerate when it came to time and dead people.

"Well… okay," said Molly, and she held the door open for them.

Lestrade and Sherlock filed in, Molly letting the door shut behind them. The two men waited while Molly went over to body storage, Lestrade's hands in his pockets and Sherlock's clasped coolly behind his back.

After a moment, Molly opened a drawer and revealed a long, dark case, easily large enough for a body, and built for travel. Obvious, thought Sherlock, considering the man must have been killed overseas in order for him to be relevant to the informant's demise.

Molly unlatched the case and opened part of it, revealing the man's face. She stepped back, rejoining Sherlock and Lestrade.

The dead man was young—likely only his mid-thirties, approximately the same age as the Detective was—though with deep lines on his face that hinted at a certain seriousness in his personality. His blonde hair was cut short, his eyes were shut. He had a slight tan to his face which stopped at the neck.

"So," said Sherlock finally. "Who is he in all of this?"

"The medical responder who got to the informant right before he died," said Lestrade. "Name of John Watson. Captain."

"Mm," said Sherlock, already beginning to think, already beginning to analyze the body. He didn't need Lestrade to tell him details. Sherlock could learn everything he needed to know himself, as if the answers were written in the air for him to read, needing only a single glance.

"Listen, I think I'm going to step outside while you, you know, investigate," said Lestrade. He preferred to let Sherlock handle the admittedly-kind-of-creepy dead-people-talking bit himself. Besides, he reasoned, they needed to get Molly out of the room. "Molly, could I borrow you for a minute? I wanted to talk to you anyway. We can let Sherlock do his thing—you know he'll behave."

"Oh, sure, okay," said Molly, clearly reluctant to leave Sherlock's company (even though he had only said eight words to her since his arrival three minutes and fifty-four seconds earlier). But nevertheless, she and Lestrade left the room, leaving Sherlock alone in the mortuary.

Sherlock looked at the man in the morgue for a moment, studying him.

John Watson.

By all appearances, utterly ordinary.

Finally, Sherlock sighed, and took out his mobile phone. He opened up the timer application, and reset it. He held the phone in one hand, and he held his other hand out carefully, an inch away from Watson.

One touch, and he would have sixty seconds to ask questions.

And though Sherlock didn't notice an unusual weight of gravity tugging at his outstretched hand, and though time did not slow or divert attention to this exact second, and though nothing at all about this moment seemed especially out of place, the universe itself was quite possibly holding its breath.

Sherlock cleared his throat with a businesslike cough.

He took a breath.

And started the timer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus the plot thickens...
> 
> Thank you all so much for the encouragement to keep going!  
> I'm hoping to update this on Mondays as often as I can (little tricky with school and thesis-writing, but I'm nothing if not determined XD). Thanks for sticking with me thus far! I hope this gets better and better as it gets rolling!


	3. The Man Called Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not be able to update Monday as planned, so here's an early update. I hope it's a good one!

The instant Sherlock hit "Start" on his phone's timer, he reached his other hand out the final few centimeters. As the seconds began ticking down, Sherlock gently touched Watson's shoulder.

There was a flash of light.

John Watson's eyes opened.

In a flurry of movement, Watson grabbed the Detective's scarf before Sherlock could finish a rather bored "hello", and slammed the Detective's forehead into the lid of the coffin with a solid THWACK.

"God, you _moron_ ," hissed Sherlock, tripping back a few steps out of Watson's reach, a hand flying up to hold his now-throbbing forehead.

This was new.

This was new and distinctly painful.

This was new, distinctly painful, and a very close call. Had there been skin contact, Watson would be dead and Sherlock would be out one potentially interesting case.

"Oh Christ, I'm sorry," said Watson hurriedly, sitting up and waving his hands apologetically. "I'm so sorry, I was just - startled. Last thing I knew I was… hang on…" He looked down, at last seeming to register his situation. Sitting, in uniform, in a case clearly not intended for a living person. Not to mention in a room that was decidedly not in a war zone.

"Being shot," snapped Sherlock, massaging his temple. Other than a little swelling, no damage had been done. The shock was more noteworthy.

The Detective made a mental note concerning Watson's reflex reaction times.

"Where am I?" asked Watson, sitting up and looking around the room in confusion.

"The morgue of St. Bart's in London," said Sherlock. He was never one for sugarcoating things. He had never seen the point in tiptoeing around sensitive subjects, instead preferring to walk straight up to them and punch them in the face.

Or perhaps more aptly in this particular instance, slam their heads into the lid of a coffin.

"Oh," said Watson, eyes wide. He ruffled his short hair with one hand, suddenly overwhelmed. "Oh. Oh _God_."

"If you don’t mind, I have some questions," said Sherlock, rather unsympathetically, attempting to get back to business in spite of this rather awkward and time-consuming start to their interview.

"Questions," repeated Watson, clearly not understanding. "But didn't you just say I was de—“

"You are dead. You're very much dead. But you're not for the next—" Consult the timer. "—forty-one seconds, during which time I require your cooperation. Moving on," continued Sherlock crisply, and he succeeded in remaining blatantly detached. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?" said Watson without thinking about the actual question at all, evidently still unsettled by the revelation that he had just been and would soon go back to being dead.

Sherlock repeated himself impatiently. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, why—"

Sherlock catalogued this piece of information in his mind (he was confident he'd deduced everything else of potential importance just in looking at Watson, and of course later research could fill in any other gaps, but this was so much faster than asking Lestrade and watching as the policeman crawled through the explanation at an appallingly slow speed) and bulldozed on. "Because I was curious. Listen. In the next—" Consult the timer. "—thirty-six seconds, I need to know exactly what transpired in the moment before your death. Any and all details. And quite quickly."

"Uh," said Watson again, which was enough for Sherlock to roll his eyes agitatedly, but then Watson seemed to grasp the urgency of the situation. Sitting up very straight, he summed up what he could remember from the instant before his death.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The facts were these:

 

John Watson, aged thirty-six years, three months, fifteen days, and eleven minutes, had been stationed in Afghanistan for the last sixteen months, working as an army doctor in active combat zones. One of the more experienced doctors in his company, he was regularly called out in response to attacks from insurgents and emergency calls. So it made sense that he was among those called in to respond to a convoy bombing near Sangin, where an informant en route to London was potentially dead.

However, John Watson, at thirty-six years, three months, fifteen days, and ten minutes, had had no idea he would only live for another sixty seconds when he first arrived on the scene.

But then, few people know such things in advance.

And quite a lot can happen in sixty seconds.

Which is how it happened that one Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers was riding in the back of the first ambulance to reach the scene of a bombed convoy just outside of Sangin, Afghanistan, and was the first man on the streets when the ambulance stopped.

The remaining survivors of the convoy shouted the all-clear and John was the one who made it first to the side of the informant, grievously wounded by a piece of shrapnel piercing his chest. John was preparing to administer emergency life support when the man gasped in terror at something over John's shoulder. John had whipped around to look, a hand going for his gun. He had seen nothing but a flash of light in the distance, when the informant grabbed John's gun arm and croaked out, realizing John was a soldier, "Tell them it was M—" before John's life ended in a swift bullet to the chest just below the collarbone by his left shoulder, right over his heart.

And so, Captain John Watson had been unable to tell anyone it was "M", whatever that meant.

That is, until the Detective.

 

~o~O~o~

 

"So you've no idea what the message meant? You didn't hear more?" Sherlock asked, fingers steepled under his chin as he thought.

Watson shook his head apologetically. "Tell them it was "mm", and that was that," he said. "Sounded like the start of a name, like the letter M, but then - well, you know what happened. I guess I died."

"You died," confirmed Sherlock. He consulted his watch. Watson had adequately relayed the final words and his final view of the scene in a comfortable twenty-one seconds (dying informant, shrapnel, terrified look, turn, light, grab, "M", dead), leaving fifteen seconds to use as he pleased.

Sherlock raised a hand, poised to tap Watson once more, with his eyes glued on the timer. "Well, it seems apparent from your testimony that it was an operation focused solely on the elimination of the informant you attended. A specialized lone gunman who rigged the original explosives. In your last seconds, the informant grabbed you to transfer his message and effectively pulled you into the sniper's kill shot. The sniper is likely former military employed by individuals with more destructive intentions. Rest assured we will find the persons responsible. Your death had meaning, or whatever it is that will make you feel better. Goodbye." Sherlock glanced up to make contact.

John was gaping at him.

"What?" said Sherlock warily with a frown.

Something told him to look at his timer.

He did so.

Two seconds.

Sherlock moved his hand quickly, to tap Watson on the shoulder and make him dead again. He had not been this close to running out of time in… actually, he was not sure he had ever been this close to accidentally running out of time. He typically had ample time to spare.

"That was absolutely _brilliant_ ," said Watson, looking at Sherlock with an unapologetic expression of awe.

Sherlock blinked, and stopped a mere breath short of Watson's skin.

The effect of those four words from Watson was something like an electrical power surge in Sherlock's brain, the lights in the halls and corridors of his mind flickering and shorting with the sudden influx of input.

Sherlock's hand twitched, and jerked back.

And at that second, there were no more seconds left.

One minute and one second had passed.

And Sherlock did not notice.

He did not notice as one minute expired, and a new minute began.

"I'm - sorry?" said Sherlock, not understanding.

Why was this so difficult to process? What about this was so difficult?

Something tugged at the back of his mind urgently, insisting he pay attention to a misplaced thought, but Sherlock did not. This was somehow far more pressing. Far more unique. Far more interesting.

Watson frowned a little, though a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "You," he said, clearly thrown off by Sherlock's lack of comprehension. "What you just said. Jesus, that was brilliant, I have no idea how you got that kind of information out of a few words from me. How did you do that?"

Sherlock was flustered. Was this praise? Unwarranted praise, moreover. He'd not solved the case.

"It's…" Sherlock blinked and scowled, perplexed that his mental processes suddenly felt so inhibited in a way they were not accustomed to. But then, they were not accustomed to praise either. "It's quite simple, really. A simple matter of observation and deduction."

"Bollocks," said Watson flatly, and again Sherlock blinked in surprise. "There's nothing simple about it, it's genius. How'd you get something like that out of a few seconds of vague crap from me?"

Sherlock straightened his scarf absently, still feeling flustered. He tapped his forehead—which still hurt from slamming into the lid of Watson's coffin—and said uncertainly, "Well, I can deduce the nature of the attack and the likely origin of the attackers based on the manner in which the attack was carried out and concluded. A—if you'll pardon the terminology—'stereotypical' attack by local terrorists would likely have attempted to remove all of the present individuals, potentially involving heavy gunfire. It would have been meant for all of you, and not just the informant. But we might infer that the informant seems to have been the primary target, since there was no gunfire at the time you arrived, as evidenced by the all-clear given before you rushed out there. So, we can presume to rule out local terrorists, or at least random terrorists. This could suggest, therefore, a targeted, skilled assault with the intention of eliminating a specific individual. The explosion would, in theory, be enough to kill, and you certainly saw evidence of that if there was indeed a fragment of shrapnel embedded in the man's chest. Without care, he wouldn't survive. Immediate care. So, unless medical responders such as yourself arrive on the scene, the man is dead, and no one is the wiser. Successful mission."

Sherlock paced a few steps, fingers again steepled in front of his lips as he spoke, his default pose when thinking heavily. Watson watched him. "But then you turn up in time to treat the dying informant. You don't know anything about this man, but your presence while he is alive is an unacceptable complication to those trying to have him killed. You become a risk to them."

Sherlock spoke more animatedly as he continued, utterly wrapped up in the case now, the intricacy of the scene reconstructed in perfect detail in his mind. He did not need to have ever seen the place where it occurred; he could envision it in his mind with almost no effort. The wild desert terrain on the outskirts of the city, concealing a sniper lying in wait as the remains of a convoy were approached by armed soldiers and medical personnel. A man rushing to the side of a fallen target, who remained open to the skilled eye of an assassin. The sniper quickly lining up the shot, determined to remove any and all liability—

Watson watched Sherlock, equal parts shocked at the rather impartial recounting of his - well, murder? death, at least - and fascinated at the detail to which this man was describing something he had never witnessed. He could see it all panning out in his mind, as Sherlock described it, the missing pieces falling gently into place. He remembered the heat radiating off the sand, the whisper of the wind and the crackling of the dying fires from the explosion that had wounded the informant, the rattling gasp of the informant's breath as he seized John's arm. The light, the flash, the pain. But now he could envision how his death fit into this vivid image in his mind. After all, it felt as though he had just been there only a few minutes ago.

Ignorant to Watson's fascination, and ignorant most of all to the passage of time, Sherlock continued his explanation. "I can deduce that the attacker was likely a sniper by training, considering the precision of the shot that killed you. And I might also say he was acting alone, considering there was only one target and he was clearly focusing on making the setup look like an accident. But the informant survives the explosion meant to kill him, Medics arrive at the scene. You arrive. So two scenarios present themselves. The sniper could either kill you and risk more men being drawn to the scene, or he could kill the informant before he had a chance to speak. Any moron would know to get the informant. So he goes for the kill shot. The informant knows it's coming, and expresses visible fear; you, as a consequence, react, and attempt to arm yourself, but the informant is convinced, and rightly so, that the kill shot is intended for him, and attempts to get your attention in order to pass on his intel before he dies. But, I might assume from the nature of your wound and death, he drags you into the way of the kill shot, as evidenced by the fact that the shot hit you from the front, at only a slight angle. So you were nearly fully turned to face the sniper, before being jerked back. The bullet strikes your shoulder, piercing the left subclavian artery on its way out, and you die instantly. People notice. You are removed from the scene. The informant has likely bled out by this time, but the sniper cannot be certain. Realizing his cover may be blown and not willing to risk another additional casualty, the sniper quickly initiates another limited explosion to rend the informant a non-threat and provide a distraction, during which time he vanishes. I know from what information I had before talking to you that there’s nothing left of the informant’s body. And I can deduce from the fact that I'm talking to you that you were removed before the second, successful explosion, since you are the only body still whole enough to speak with." Sherlock halted, turning to look at Watson. "So. A sniper. Military-grade skill. You're dead. The informant is very dead. And here we are."

Watson stared, mouth open, at Sherlock. "That," he said, finally, "was amazing."

"Really?" said Sherlock, every use of a synonym to 'brilliant' like another blow to the forehead. Perhaps Watson had hit him harder than he had realized? No, everything is working correctly, Sherlock concluded, mentally quizzing himself on his memorized list of two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash. It's simply a question of believing that the offered praise is genuine.

Is it? Is it actually… praise?

Because it - seems like it.

"Of course," said Watson. "It's - extraordinary, it really is. It's like you were there. Like you saw the whole bloody thing."

"I merely reconstruct the obvious from the available data," said Sherlock, but he was smiling just the slightest bit now. An unfamiliar tug at the corner of his lips and the dull thrum of endorphins. Flattery is not entirely lost on him. It's too rarely given to be wholly ineffective. "People don't normally say it's 'amazing'."

"What do they usually say?" asked Watson.

"Hm. 'Piss off'?" ventured Sherlock.

That startled a laugh out of Watson, and Sherlock permitted himself a smug grin. This was a truly bizarre, singular occurrence. It was not especially common for the dead to appreciate a blow-by-blow of their own murder.

Watson glanced down at himself, and actually whistled in surprise at the sight of the wound to his shoulder. He had clearly only just noticed it. "God, you weren't kidding. That's a clean shot."

"Mm," said Sherlock, disinterested. While he was fond of experimenting and understanding the fine mechanics of anatomy, as it was undeniably invaluable to his work as a consulting detective, he didn't much care for examining the living. An odd but true contradiction. And Watson was certainly alive at this moment; therefore, not an experiment. "Bit ironic. You likely needn't have died at all, had you been even thirty seconds later to arrive. Or if the man hadn't tried to talk to you."

Watson shrugged. "Part of the job," he said with a sigh. "Not like I didn't know there was a risk." He sighed again. "So what happens now?"

"Now you return to being dead," said Sherlock, shaking his head as if to clear it, regaining his focus. "Time is up—"

Sherlock froze.

… Wait.

Sherlock's eyes were drawn down to look at the phone timer in his hand, the entire weight of gravity suddenly crashing down on his spine with as much acceleration as could be gained.

Five minutes, forty-one seconds, and counting.

The original minute had long since passed.

Someone, somewhere, was dead.

And it wasn't John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFFHANGERRRRR
> 
> (I sure hope you can explain your lapse in judgment, Sherlock  
> you complete doofus)


	4. The Man Called John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slightly ahead-of-schedule update. Just couldn't stop myself posting a little early. XD Happy Saturday!

It was as if all of the oxygen had suddenly left the room.

Sherlock was not a man who was often prone to panic, or even doubt, but the sudden realization of what he had just done—or rather, what he had _not_ done—seemed to open up a vacuum that was effectively sucking all of the breathable air from the room, leaving him rooted to the spot with his mind both racing to understand and completely and impossibly blank. 

Sherlock could not believe it.

He _would not_  believe it.

This was not happening.

This _could_ not happen. His Rules were comprehensive, rigid, and without exception.

But Watson was here. Time was long since up.

It was impossible to deny.

Someone was dead. His carelessness—his inexplicable _carelessness—_ had just - just… What just happened.

Sherlock slowly sat down on the floor, sinking down as he sank deeply into the depths of his mind, the transition like plunging into a pool and watching the physical world become more and more distant as he submerged.

"Hey, mate?" said Watson, watching Sherlock suddenly sink down in alarm. He reached out a hand to Sherlock. "Uh… uh, sir? Are you all right?"

"Don't touch me," said Sherlock sharply. He could not permit Watson to be dead just yet. Not until he'd figured out how this happened. It wasn't as if it mattered if he let Watson stay alive for a few more minutes. The damage had been done. There was no going back.

The laws regarding his Gift were absolute.

One touch gave life, and a second touch took it away, forever.

But nothing was without cost. The most basic laws of physics—the most basic laws controlling how the world itself worked—dictated as much. So if one life was restored for too long, then someone else had to die.

Every action had an equal and opposite reaction.

And in this case, Sherlock's inaction had resulted in an equal and opposite reaction.

A fatal one.

A mistake he had never before made with a human life.

This was why the Rules existed. So that there never would be a stupid mistake. So that this could never happen.

Caring was the greatest mistake, one he took care never to make. But carelessness was equally unforgivable.

It could be anyone. A total stranger. It did not matter. The mistake had been made. The reaction was irreversible.

Watson blinked and drew back his hand. "Okay, okay, sorry."

"Don't apologize," snapped Sherlock.

"O-okay."

"It's annoying."

"Sorry."

"Just shut up"

Watson fell silent, completely at a loss as to what was going on. He watched the Detective thinking with some concern. He didn't even know the man's name, but he _was_ a doctor. Sudden strange behavior was something he was supposed to address.

"Shut up," said Sherlock randomly.

"I didn't say anything," protested Watson, feeling more and more confused by the second.

Sherlock ran distracted fingers through his unruly black hair. "You're thinking. Stop."

It was almost painful watching Watson trying to think, when Sherlock's mind was moving so much faster, and with such urgency.

He broke down the last—check the timer—six minutes and nineteen seconds by the minute, then the second, taking it all apart.

Something had happened at the last possible second. Something unprecedented. Something Sherlock could not explain.

Watson had happened.

Watson had spoken, commented, praised, and Sherlock's brain had simply… switched off.

Sherlock gave Watson a look that made Watson shift uncomfortably from his seat in the case, feeling distinctly as though he were being examined from the inside out and was about to be (metaphorically) dissected. It was unnerving. But Watson matched Sherlock's stare—admittedly with far less intensity—until the thought came to him that the Detective was not so much glaring at him as he was staring furiously into space, which just so happened to have settled itself somewhere in front of Watson.

Watson kept quiet and waited.

Sherlock was silent.

John Watson, captain, army doctor, and, he had thought, utterly ordinary.

There was only one conclusion, really.

One seemingly impossible solution.

But it could not be impossible, for the impossible had happened.

One seemingly highly improbable solution, then.

Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.

Sherlock had been wrong.

About Watson.

Sherlock focused on Watson, studying the man again to see what he had missed. But he could not figure it out.

Yet it was the obvious answer. The only answer.

Sherlock had been wrong about John Watson. Somehow, somewhere, on some level of his mind, he had known there was something important here that needed to be sustained past the bounds of sixty seconds, and he had stopped, but now in the conscious world, he had no idea why or what for.

If Destiny had been a corporeal being instead of an abstract concept, she might have been rolling her eyes. The universe, quite possibly, would have laughed. Time would have shrugged, and perhaps offered a mischievous and knowing smile.

But, of course, the only two present were a bewildered Watson and the Detective, who had just stumbled across a case far more intriguing than he had ever expected.

He had been wrong about John Watson.

John Watson, seemingly ordinary.

But - _somehow_ \- extraordinary.

It was a case, Sherlock realized.

A case that _had_ to be solved. He had to know, he had to know what it was that had stopped him from carrying through when the timer had reached sixty seconds, he had to know what it was about John Watson that had made him stop and cease caring about the passage of time.

He had to know. Whether to understand or to ensure that he never fell prey to that part of his mind again, he did not need to know, and he did not care to. The fact that someone was dead as a result of his carelessness had to be blocked out. He had to delete the part of him that still struggled to process that weight on his conscience (the part of him that screamed ' _what did I just do_ —' had to be silenced for the sake of knowledge).

The only solution was to understand. And to understand everything.

The way forward suddenly became clear.

Sherlock leapt up off to the floor and to his feet without warning, making Watson jump in surprise.

"You okay?" Watson asked, clearly having forgotten that he was supposed to have shut up.

"Fine," said Sherlock crisply. He looked at Watson, a foreign unease resting in his stomach like a misplaced bowling ball, but his resolve was even more forceful. His eyes narrowed.

He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. And the Game was on.

"Good," said Watson, not convinced. "All right. Um. Am - am I supposed to go back to being dead now?"

"Technically," said Sherlock, his hands sweeping back to clasp firmly behind his back.

"Right." Watson paused. "How does that work, exactly?"

"I touch you, you die again," said Sherlock succinctly.

"Oh," said Watson, comprehension dawning on his face. "That's why you said not to touch you before."

"Good deduction," said Sherlock, a little sarcastic, but Watson didn't seem to notice.

"Well. Seems simple enough," said Watson. He looked at Sherlock. "So. Uh… thanks for all this, I guess?"

Sherlock paused. He was surprised, for the third time in under ten minutes. Which was unheard of. He made a mental note of it, adding it to a file he was already compiling on the man before him.

No one had ever thanked him for his Gift, though.

It was a… very new experience.

"I'm not sure why you're thanking me," said Sherlock. "Seems idiotic."

"Well, I mean, it's been a fun five minutes," said Watson. "And I guess now I know what happened."

"That hardly matters if you're dead. Dead implies a complete end to conscious thought."

"What if there's something after death? I'd know then," said Watson with a shrug.

"I don't pretend to know anything about such things," said Sherlock dismissively. "A foolish notion for consideration. If you don't recall being dead and knowing earlier, then perhaps you already know if there’s an afterlife at all. Either way, I find the subject pointless."

Watson gave a wry smile. "I guess you're right."

"I'm always right," was Sherlock's automatic response. He bit his tongue to hold back the 'except once' which nearly followed. Watson did not need to know. He did not need to know the full circumstances of their meeting. And until now, Sherlock _had_ always been right. More or less.

Watson laughed. "Hard to argue. I don't even know your name and you've apparently figured out… well, a hell of a lot about me. And what happened to me."

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock.

Watson frowned. "What?"

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "Sherlock Holmes, idiot. The name is Sherlock Holmes."

Watson processed this for a moment, and finally grinned. "Great. Great, well. Thanks, Sherlock." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then he stuck out a hand.

Sherlock looked at it, finally giving John a dry look. "What is that."

"Uh…" Watson tried a tiny, confused smile. "A handshake?"

"What for?" said Sherlock.

"I don't know," said Watson, his expression easily revealing his uncertainty as to how to get his words out. "It seemed like a good way to do it. You know. You shake hands when you thank people?"

"That would kill you," Sherlock pointed out.

"I know, you just said," answered John.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, and stopped. Perhaps that was better, he mused—perhaps it was better, if Watson was just – dead. If the full proof of his mistake simply went away.

He promptly deleted that thought.

"So. Handshake, and you die," said Sherlock, choosing his next words with great care.

Watson nodded. "I think that'd be okay."

"You think, or you know?" said Sherlock, and he took a calculated step in Watson's direction.

"I know," said Watson, tone decided.

"So if you have to go, then…" Another very careful step, and Sherlock stopped just out of range of John's offered hand.

"Look, Sherlock, I appreciate the thoroughness, but I'm sure," said John Watson. "Since I have to, this is good. I would like to thank you, after all, whether there's a point or not."

It was now or never.

"What if you… didn't. Have to." Sherlock could not believe he was saying the words.

"Sorry?" asked Watson uncomprehendingly.

"What if you didn't have to be dead?" Sherlock spoke with a precision one might attribute to trying on walk a mile on shards of glass and not get cut.

"Well obviously, I'd prefer that," said Watson with an amiable smile and a shrug. "But - well, not like I can do anything about it."

"No," said Sherlock slowly. "But - I can."

Watson stared at him.

"No one can know," said Sherlock, which part of him rather hoped was reason enough to say no, and remove the decision from his responsibility.

But it was his, and his alone.

"Are - are you serious?" Watson was watching him closely.

The Detective thought.

And arrived at his answer.

"Lie back in the coffin."

Watson's face set, and he nodded once, with a small half smile. He dropped his hand and briskly moved to settle back, lying down with a sort of resigned look on his face.

Sherlock's face was suddenly hovering over Watson's, careful not to touch, with a sharp, studying edge. Watson blinked and unconsciously shrank back, as Sherlock snapped, "How still can you be?"

Watson looked rather alarmed. "What—"

"Shut up. How still can you be?"

"I can't exactly shut up and answer your question at once, can I?"

" _John_."

"Really still. And _really_ still when I'm dead again, obviously."

Sherlock blinked in surprise once more, for three reasons.

The first was that he had just called the man John. Which should not be strange, but he had known this man for—check the watch—eight minutes and twelve seconds—and he was not _just_ Watson, Doctor Watson, Captain Watson, Mr. Watson, but _John_ Watson.

The second was that John was not asking him. Sherlock had offered to give John his life back, and he could see from the firm line in John's mouth, and the sharp look on his brow, and the way his lips were quirked at the corners in a frown, that John was resigned to being dead again. And he wasn't going to demand Sherlock carry through with keeping him alive. Wasn't even considering demanding he do so, Sherlock thought. John wasn't allowing himself to be hopeful. He was merely a little sad.

The third was that Sherlock could not make his hand move any closer to John than it already was. He couldn't bring himself to do it. The minute had passed, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to take that back. But it was with a swoop of terror and disbelief that he realized he did not want to. He did not want to take it back, as if this meant nothing. As if this was no more significant than any of the other cases in which the time had not run out.

And while there was good reason to return John to his deceased state, because that was what everyone (including John) was expecting, that final, single fact was what did it.

It was what made him say, "You stay very still and look dead until I come get you," and close the lid of the coffin before he swept from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap.
> 
> Sherlock no


	5. Random Proximity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avast, more dead people ahead  
> (though I think by now that should be more or less a given)

 

As a boy, Young Sherlock had found himself tasked with the seemingly insurmountable task of reconciling himself to the possession of an impossible and terrible Gift.

Most boys of eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and fifty-one minutes of age found themselves presented with the mysteries of the universe only insofar as those that involved the rules of homework and how much ice cream was too much ice cream, and occasionally such deep questions of time, and love. The world's mysteries were not complicated things.

Young Sherlock had found himself faced with life, death, and what lay between. He found himself questioning morality, humanity, and mortality.

And he found himself alone.

It was one thing to ask these questions, and another thing to ask these questions and have to answer them alone.

But Young Sherlock could not risk the dangers that emotional attachments posed. He could not be tied to anyone. Even one person brought with them great risk. No, the only logical way to proceed was to sever ties with everything and everyone, starting at that young age and continuing on, for the rest of his life.

No family. No parental or familial ties. No friends. No colleagues. Even a friendly acquaintance could be dangerous.

It wasn't like this was an entirely foreign concept. His was a logical mind, and he understood the concept that good science was impartial science. Objective science.

This was science.

This - this… Gift, as he had to call it, was his research. His to study and learn.

He had to learn the specifics of his Gift.

To give life, he had to take it. But death had a grace period. Young Sherlock rationalized that this consequence was beyond his control. He was not to blame. But to remain blameless, he had to understand.

So it was that he had embraced the need for knowledge. Knowledge became the companion he could not physically risk having. Learning became the pastime that made him forget about feeling lonely. Understanding was the feeling that filled the void of everything else he had to give up.

He had stopped missing it all, after a while.

It's easy not to care when you look at it objectively.

Sherlock had internalized this ideal so deeply that nothing had shifted his resolve in all the time since. His mind became a mighty palace, full of rooms and libraries and halls bursting with knowledge. Nothing had ever jeopardized the impenetrable walls he built to make sure the world stayed distinctly out, where it belonged, available for his dissection and study and nothing else. He'd become the Detective. Cold, cool, and calculating.

It had been a flawless system.

 

~o~O~o~

 

And it wasn't until he was thirty-three years, nine months, thirteen days, twenty-one hours, and forty-one minutes old, exiting a morgue that contained one too few dead people, that he ever had reason to fear it might be at risk.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was surprised and a little disconcerted when it took the Detective nine minutes and several seconds to return from the morgue. After all, he wasn't aware that Sherlock was leaving behind the man known as John, who was lying in the dark in a coffin, trying to make sure he'd not just imagined the last nine minutes (while also contemplating exactly how a very much alive person should endeavour to look more dead).

"That took a surprising and disconcerting amount of time," was Lestrade's comment upon the Detective's emergence from the room.

Sherlock was simply relieved to see that both Molly Hooper and Lestrade were still alive in the hallway. While he didn't exactly count them as friends, it would be highly inconvenient for either of them to have died. Replacing them would be tedious and potentially impossible.

But, Sherlock knew, that if they both were alive, then that meant someone else, somewhere near the building, was dead. However, this _was_ a hospital—maybe no one would think anything of it.

Coming back to earth, Sherlock shot Lestrade a glare. "I was occupied."

"Oh?" said Lestrade, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh," replied Sherlock.

Molly looked between the two of them, her expression one of mild confusion. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," said Sherlock. "Little information to go on. I took the liberty of shutting the coffin. Didn't seem right to leave it open."

Molly nodded in agreement, smiling a little, while Lestrade looked over her shoulder at Sherlock with an expression of undisguised skepticism.

"We should go. Lestrade clearly needs a donut. He's grown irritable with the lack of sugar," said Sherlock snarkily.

"I - what—?" snapped Lestrade, as Molly let out a surprised giggle. The policeman blustered. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Sherlock, quit being… I mean… Right, thanks for your help, Molly."

"Of course," said Molly, recovering from her giggles and offering Sherlock a shy smile. Sherlock was entirely oblivious to it, his mind on other things and other people. Other people who had been dead less than ten minutes previously, specifically. "I'll, um, right - I'll work on getting you that paperwork you wanted, Greg."

"Thanks, Molly, I really appreciate it," said Lestrade. He gave Sherlock a pointed look.

Sherlock managed to bother with a crisp, "Thank you, Molly," before he started off down the hall at a purposeful pace, and Lestrade followed after.

"Bye, Sherlock," Molly called after them, waving a little after them. "Bye, Greg. Bye."

Lestrade waved, before lengthening his stride to catch up with Sherlock.

"What the Hell was the holdup back there?" demanded Lestrade in a low voice, as Molly locked up the doors to the morgue and departed as well, vanishing into some other hallway. The moment he and Sherlock were the only ones around, he added, "Seriously, Sherlock, what was that?!"

"What was _what_ , Inspector? Your lack of specificity is disappointing, as ever," said Sherlock, evading the discussion as best he could, and he continued on.

But Lestrade grabbed Sherlock's arm, and tugged him to a halt. Sherlock brusquely shook off Lestrade's hand with an outraged glare, but Lestrade didn't give him time to start complaining.

"I'm not messing around, Sherlock. You were in there for a damn long time. You better have some fascinating reason for it, because right now, I'm about a hundred types of unsettled."

"God, Lestrade, not every investigation is as easy as a sixty second conversation."

"So what was so special about this one that it took an extra eight minutes? Huh?!"

If only Lestrade knew.

Sherlock knew. And he wasn't about to tell.

"I waited a few moments before bringing him back, and afterwards I wanted to think without you or Molly insisting on monopolizing my attention and distracting me from the case at hand," hissed Sherlock. He was a talented enough liar. He could weave fragments of it in with the lie, to make it a little easier for Lestrade to swallow.

Lestrade scowled. "Are you _certain_ you were under a minute?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Really? _Really_ , Lestrade?" His dismay at the question was fueled rather readily by an unfamiliar sensation in the pit of his stomach. A sort of anxious squirming. Was it a disease? An intestinal parasite? No, no, that was ridiculous…

Well, it couldn't be _guilt_. No. Sherlock never felt guilt.

He was not as talented a liar when lying to himself.

But he could try.

"Hey, I have to ask," said Lestrade, throwing up his hands defensively, although he didn't look convinced. "Do you know how dangerous this business is? You have to be careful. _I_ have to be careful."

"I'm always careful," said Sherlock frigidly.

Lestrade sighed, rubbing his eyes. "Tell me this guy had some useful information. We have a terrorist threat potentially bearing down on us here, and you just scared me half to death, so tell me you got something useful."

"If I had something truly useful, Lestrade, I wouldn't have taken so long," said Sherlock. "He had little to say. The important thing is that he didn't get much of anything out of the informant before he died. The letter 'M'. Likely the start of a name, given the context, though that can't be certain. A surname assumes a single identity, an alias assumes either a removed controller or a controlling entity. Those seem the most likely. So the start of a name of something, be it a person or an organization, but that’s all he had to say. I have essentially nothing else to go on."

"Hell," grumbled Lestrade, looking sour.

Knowing he had to give Lestrade something, Sherlock continued, stringing fragments of information together, "What I might conclude is that our informant and medical officer were killed by a skilled assassin sent in to remove the informant. Specifically, one who is military trained. I might go far as to say trained military sniper who either left to work in private contracting or was retired or discharged. I'm inclined to think the latter is more likely in this particular instance. The sniper was likely working alone, was well versed in both the use of his primary firearm as well as minor explosives, and must have been capable of and comfortable with going undetected in the Afghani desert—all of which strongly suggests that our man is between twenty and forty years of age, is right-handed, has a military background but is no longer part of the military, may have served in the area while he was actively deployed as part of the army, and working for some sort of directing superior. It's much more difficult to gain specifics about the employer without actually interacting with him as opposed to his gun-wielding thug, but…"

Lestrade no longer looked quite as sour. "I thought you said you had nothing to go on—"

"I'm not finished," interrupted Sherlock, mind working fast. "I would hazard a guess that either the sniper, the employer, or both, are at the very least based in the UK, considering the threat which the informant intended to warn the British government of the threat. I should add that this threat seems very real. John did not have a specific name to give, only a letter, so with so little to go on, we can only assume that there may be an entire network at work here as we speak. Who knows. I would nevertheless raise the national threat level. Might as well get the entire city in a tizzy over this."

Lestrade looked at him.

"What?" demanded Sherlock crossly, feeling more than a bit on edge.

"… _John_?" said Lestrade.

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "Is that _seriously_ all you took away from that? Is there a problem, Lestrade? Hm?"

"Sorry, sorry, no, just—you don't usually use names," said Lestrade, his suspicious tone returning. "You never use first names. I don't think you even know mine."

"I don't need to know your name, do I—Gordon?"

"Greg."

"Garry," said Sherlock, waving a hand to emphasize his total disinterest, and Lestrade looked like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"You're an arse, sometimes, you know," said Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Lestrade huffed out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Still. Right. This changes things. I think I was happier when you had nothing."

"Typical," said Sherlock drily. He shifted. Standing here in the hallway was making him more and more conscious of the fact that down the far end of the hall, a man was likely twiddling his thumbs in a coffin, and would be doing so for only God knew how long until Sherlock was able to retrieve him.

He was still struggling to wrap his head around the fact that he _was_ going to retrieve him.

That there _was_ someone to retrieve at all.

"Am I free to go?" continued Sherlock, not bothering to mask the irritation in his tone.

"I suppose so." Lestrade shook his head tiredly, clearly still wrapping his head around things. "I should head back to the Yard. See what I can dig up. Probably nothing, but it's worth a try. At least I can put in my two pence on upping the threat level."

"That's very nice," said Sherlock, taking his cue to leave, and he marched to the door leading back outside. Lestrade hurried to catch up.

Outside, the afternoon pedestrian crowd milled about, passerby occasionally moving past on their way to or from all sorts of destinations ('bakery, home, cafe, mistress' apartment, barber', Sherlock's mind chimed in, before he made note that there were more pressing—and interesting—matters at hand than passing strangers). The expected hum of local traffic was broken by a loud and constant honk of a car horn.

Lestrade and Sherlock turned to look for the source, and a moment's investigation revealed that it was coming from Sherlock's waiting cab, parked on the other side of the street where it had dropped him off earlier (in what felt like a small eternity, or another lifetime but was, in fact, only fifteen minutes at most).

"Annoying," commented Sherlock.

Lestrade snorted. "Your cab, then?"

Sherlock hummed an affirmative.

"Well, your cabbie sounds mighty pissed," commented Lestrade, gesturing at Sherlock's waiting taxi. The horn was still blaring, and clearly had been for some time, making people on the street stop and glare at it. "Not that I'm blaming him; you've kept the poor bastard waiting for ages now. Probably was trying to get your attention while we were in there."

"Your fault," snapped Sherlock succinctly, with another look at the cab.

Really, what was—

… Ah.

It was at this precise moment that Sherlock knew he truly needed to get rid of Lestrade.

And quite quickly.

"Goodbye, Geoffrey," he said suddenly, and stalked over to his waiting taxi.

" _Greg_!" shouted Lestrade after Sherlock, but Sherlock ignored him, and finally the inspector sighed and walked off in the direction of his own car, shaking his head.

Something was wrong, but Sherlock was clearly not giving any answers.

Lestrade would have to find them himself.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that the answers in question were, at this moment, honking a car horn without pause, as if daring him to notice.

As soon as Lestrade rounded the corner and moved out of sight, Sherlock wrenched at the driver's side door handle of the taxi cab, and flung the door open.

The driver fell out.

Very dead.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Oh, _Hell_."

He knelt down, taking every precaution to not touch the body.

A few seconds of close inspection confirmed what Sherlock already knew to be true.

Who died when he kept a person alive for more than a minute was a matter of random proximity. And, it seemed, the cabbie was the unfortunate moron who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was not a question of fault. Sherlock did not, after all, choose who died, and it was certainly not pre-mediated, so he was not about to entertain the notion that he’d killed the man. Sherlock adhered to a strict code of rules with regard to all things; and while he wasn’t sentimental and quite frequently wasn’t even sympathetic for his fellow man, he wasn’t a killer. But there was an element of responsibility that Sherlock could not deny. As much as he wanted to.

He had to stop analyzing it, or it would get to him. And that was when things would get well and truly out of hand.

Sherlock steadied himself. Something about looking at this particular body was triggering physical reactions he had not had to dead things in over two decades. Namely a gag reflex. He did not bother to think on this. He had more important things to think about. Like what to _do_ with the dead cabbie.

Three things became very clear.

The first was that he could not tell Lestrade about this. For obvious reasons.

The second was that he could not tell John about this. For less obvious reasons. But something told him this was not likely to be taken well. Normal people and their proclivity for sentimentality rarely meshed well with death. Especially deaths they may or may not have unknowingly had something to do with.

The third was that he had to do _something_ , because he estimated he had about ten seconds before people on the street started noticing there was a dead man on the pavement.

Hm. All right.

Think.

It didn’t take long for a plan to develop.

“Is everything all right?”

Sometimes random passerby could be incredibly convenient.

Sherlock turned around quickly, looking up. A woman was craning over to look at him and the cabbie; a few other pedestrians were behind her. It would seem that people were beginning to notice the dead man flopped ludicrously on the ground.

“I don’t know, I’m not sure if he’s breathing,” said Sherlock, employing all of his considerable acting abilities into sounding as un-Sherlock-ishly anxious as possible.

One woman clapped a hand over her mouth, and a man dug out a phone, clearly calling for help.  Other people were flocking to join them.

 “Does anyone know CPR?” said Sherlock to the small crowd at large, mind racing. When no one came forward within five seconds, Sherlock seized his opportunity and got to his feet.

“I’ll run inside Bart’s—perhaps I can find someone around who can get here faster than phoned paramedics,” suggested Sherlock quickly, gesturing to the nearest people. “Stay with him! See if he comes around—“

“Hurry!” called one of the women, and Sherlock wasted no time in trotting back the way he’d come and throwing open the doors. He hurried inside, and vanished out of sight of the street.

As soon as he heard the door click shut behind him, Sherlock stopped hurrying, and came to rest in the stairwell.

He kept watch out the closest small window, and within two minutes, responders had arrived, and within four minutes, the (very much dead) cabbie was lifted onto a stretcher, and carried away. The crowd dispersed within eleven minutes.

When all was quiet, Sherlock heaved a sigh.

Well. The cabbie’s death resolved one of the day’s uncertainties. The remaining list—which included but was not limited to how to keep Lestrade oblivious to all of this, how to get John Watson out of the morgue, and what he would actually do with John once he’d done so—was a little too long for his taste.

This was only going to get more complicated. And he hadn’t even gotten to start on the case yet.

So much for that blood coagulation experiment waiting at home.

God, this day had gotten tedious fast.

“This is why I like experiments better than people,” said Sherlock grumpily to no one in particular, before he slipped back outside and onto the streets of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> meanwhile, John really just wants a cup of tea
> 
> Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into
> 
> ~
> 
> This chapter was a little challenging, I'm not going to lie, but I hope I reached a decent balance for Sherlock's reactions and behavior. Besides, there's so much drama just waiting to be drama'ed (not a word). 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your feedback, it means a lot! :D <3


	6. And The Address Is...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A somewhat longer chapter than usual, but no less ridiculous!

Maybe, thought John, for at least the hundredth time in the last few hours, this was all a strange dream.

Lying in the dark, his nose a few centimeters from the lid of a coffin, he was inclined to think it was a _very_ strange dream.

Then again, it would be hard to think anything else, if one minute you were in Afghanistan, and the next minute you were in London with a large hole in your shoulder and a rather haughty-looking stranger looking down at you.

John sighed.

He wiggled around until he could scratch his nose.

He sighed a little more.

In spite of the bizarre circumstances in which he currently found himself and the rather tense nature of the present situation, John was actually starting to feel bored with lying there and waiting. He had no idea where he would be going, how he was going to get out of here, or (most importantly) how that was possible. None of this made any sense.

John wasn’t an idiot, but he wasn’t going to pretend he had any idea how any of this was happening, and the longer he lay there in the dark, the more he began to think it wasn’t. But of course, if it wasn’t, then that just meant this was either a really, _really_ bizarre lucid dream, or he was actually dead and this was the post-mortem holding pattern.

Then again, perhaps it _wasn’t_ a dream.

That possibility might be even more terrifying than the thought of being dead.

But John found himself hoping beyond hope that it wasn’t a dream. That it wasn’t just being dead. That this was actually happening, in spite of all of the reasons why it couldn’t. That this, and being here, and Sherlock Holmes, were all real.

… Still. It was dark in here and John couldn’t help but think he really could use some better lumbar support if he was going to be here for much longer.

Seemed like a modest enough request.

A cup of tea would be even better.

Maybe a couple biscuits.

Suddenly the coffin lurched and John flattened his arms against the sides, adrenaline levels skyrocketing in the space of just two seconds, after being in the still and silent dark for so long. The entire container shifted, stopped, and then the lid flew open.

“Ah, there you a—“ said Sherlock Holmes, just before John reflexively seized the other man by the scarf and, without thinking, slammed Sherlock’s head into the lid of the coffin with a definitive THUD for the second time that day.

“Ah, _God_ , you _idiot_ ,” snapped Sherlock, stepping back out of John’s reach and rubbing his sore forehead, which was sure to bruise now. “What is _wrong_ with you?!”

“Christ, sorry!” hissed John, peering through the darkened room at Sherlock and gesturing apologetically. “Sorry, sorry, you startled me.”

“If I suffer mental damage because of you, I hold you financially and personally responsible for any subsequent repercussions suffered by my work,” said Sherlock darkly, massaging his head.

“I’m sorry, really,” said John again. “I wasn’t sure when you were coming back, and I let my guard down. Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Stop apologizing already,” said Sherlock, blinking and running a mental check of his brain functions. Everything seemed in order. Unless smuggling a person out of a morgue after only having interacted with them for less than ten minutes was the action of an insane person, in which case, he’d whacked his head harder than he’d thought.

“Are you all right?” asked John.

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, waving a hand dismissively. He looked over at John. “Are you going to do that again, or can we proceed?”

“I won’t do it again, I promise,” said John. He looked around, this time seriously getting a bearing on his surroundings, figuring out the best way to get out of the coffin. Finally, he clambered over the side and slid onto the shelf supporting the coffin, before dropping to the floor.

John straightened, feeling stiff. But definitely alive.

He pinched himself.

Sherlock noticed. “You aren’t dreaming,” he said exasperatedly.

“Can you blame me for checking?” said John.

Sherlock couldn’t.

John stretched, with a care for his left shoulder. Somehow, the fact that the bullet wound wasn’t causing him much pain at all was more disconcerting than if it had been agonizingly painful.

“You can assess your wellbeing later,” said Sherlock curtly. “I would rather not linger. It’s the middle of the night, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to be careful.”

“Right, sorry,” said John, looking around. “Do you know if there’s any way I can get my things?”

Sherlock carefully edged around John, reaching behind the case and lifting a small duffel bag, John’s initials printed on the side. “This is what they sent back with you.”

John took the bag (with a care not to bump hands, though he noticed Sherlock was wearing gloves), unzipping it to look inside.

“You might want to change,” suggested Sherlock. “Somehow, your uniform doesn’t seem conducive to avoiding detection. It is memorable. At least, more memorable than something casual.”

John nodded, looking down at his current clothing. He was still wearing his day uniform, though any body armor and gear he had been wearing when he died had long since been removed. But the uniform was definitely his. There was even sandy dust still on his knees. He looked in the bag. “Fair enough. I’ve got clothes in here.”

“Good. You have two minutes,” said Sherlock shortly, holding up two fingers. “Meet me in the hallway there. Act casual.”

John frowned, but nodded. He set the bag down in the coffin and dug out some fresh clothes.

Sherlock adjusted the pair of leather gloves he’d donned before sneaking in, and then took up a discarded lab coat and pulled it on over his own long black overcoat. He flattened his hair, checked his watch, said, “Minute-thirty,” to John, who was in the process of extricating a shirt from his bag of belongings, and stepped out into the hall.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Getting into St. Bart’s had been easy.

If he was honest, Sherlock had found it disappointingly so. He’d been anticipating some greater resistance, but instead, it was all a little too easy.

Sherlock had spent the entirety of the afternoon and evening working on the necessary preparations. The wait had been the most tedious part; not willing to be distracted by anything save the task at hand, Sherlock had only needed a little over two hours to get the necessary tools and information, and had then simply spent the better part of six hours running over details in his mind and getting thoroughly bored.

He could only analyze what he knew about John so much, after all. He needed more data. Sherlock was clever, but he could not make bricks without clay.

But as his chosen window of opportunity drew closer, Sherlock had gathered his effects and set out for St. Bart’s. He walked the entire way, though it took just about an hour to travel the full distance on foot.

Something about getting a cab seemed a little… off.

Not to mention, it was a hazard. After all, a cab dropping him off somewhere might remember they’d seen him. It was bringing in another human element to the ‘heist’ he was about to pull, and if Sherlock knew one thing without a doubt, it was that the more people were involved in something, the more doomed the affair became.

So, Sherlock walked. He knew that the building’s security personnel worked on a rotating shift, with changes at specific times. He arrived at the morgue at exactly the window when he knew guards would be changing shifts, and from there, it had taken very little effort. A few lockpicks and a small screwdriver, a well-timed shimmy up a fire escape and through a stairwell window, and he was in. Sherlock knew all of the gaps in the security camera routes, and therefore could find the least-watched ingresses. Where he couldn’t avoid cameras, a procured spare lab coat over his own black one served well enough in case someone saw him from a distance on screen or in person.

He wouldn’t be positively identified; he was sure of that much. And of course, he always kept a few tricks in reserve, in case of emergency. So, as long as John didn’t prove too much of a hindrance, it should all go according to plan.

After navigating a few hallways without incident, Sherlock had reached the morgue, entered, and received a solid blow to the head from John for his troubles.

 

~o~O~o~

 

In the hallway, Sherlock sighed impatiently, fiddling with his mobile in a feigned casual gesture.

After a few minutes, the door opened, and John poked his head out, looking around for Sherlock. When he saw the Detective, he fully exited the morgue. He was now wearing a worn pair of jeans and a wool jumper—which was fortuitously well suited for the crisp night outside—and had his small duffel slung over his good shoulder.

“Finally,” said Sherlock, glancing at John to assess his condition. It didn’t take a genius to see John was wide awake and focused. Adrenaline was no doubt lending itself to their cause. Interestingly, though, the adrenaline wasn’t causing the expected fidgets one might expect. It simply sharpened John’s attention and exaggerated his military bearing. So, the man was not opposed to a little risk. That was convenient.

John refrained from an indignant reply, instead simply adjusting his hold on his bag. “Sorry,” he said. “Lead on.”

Sherlock coolly shoved his phone into his coat pocket and adjusted his lab coat before he started down the hall at a nonchalant pace. John fell in just a step behind him without pause.

“Our goal is to appear as though we belong here,” said Sherlock quietly. “Perhaps I was working late and you came to take a bag for me. Perhaps we both work late and you’re going home for the night. It doesn’t matter what the reason is. We remain calm and act as though we belong here unless circumstances dictate we must do otherwise. We’re unlikely to encounter other people, but that doesn’t mean we won’t look suspicious on a security camera if we act stupidly. Understood?”

“Understood,” said John with a nod.

Sherlock looked at the other man out of the corner of his eye. Calm and cool under pressure, short and to the point, clear communication. Very military. And yet, here they were, very much breaking the rules. Unusual combination of discipline and risk-taking. Interesting.

He was rapidly ceasing to care about the coagulating bloody toes in the fridge at home, in lieu of this much more interesting case walking along next to him.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the corridor and turned a corner. John followed smoothly.

“I haven’t been here in ages,” said John softly. “I went to school here.”

“That so?” said Sherlock, making note of this. Army doctor trained at Bart’s. Factoring his age and fleeting pause at every hallway intersection, an alumnus returned for the first time, then, and not entirely sure of the building’s layout.

“Well, that was – well, literally a lifetime ago,” added John. “And I didn’t really spend time, you know, down here in the morgue.”

“Shame. It’s the most interesting part,” replied Sherlock, which earned a bemused look from John.

After a moment and another turn into a new corridor, John said, “I’m getting the impression we’re not just exiting through a door like normal people.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously not. There’s an alarm after hours.”

“So how _are_ we leaving?”

“The same way I came in. Keep to the left side of this hallway, it isn’t covered well by the camera at the far end.”

John frowned slightly but said nothing as they went on, obeying Sherlock’s instructions and mimicking his casual body language. Keeping pace with the long-legged Detective in front of him and carrying his bag while not looking too obviously conspicuous was demanding enough of John’s energy and attention already.

Sherlock finally took a left turn and they entered a dark and deserted stairwell.  Sherlock climbed, keeping to the right side of the stairs, and John did the same. Sherlock was the faster of the two by far, flying up two flights of stairs with ease before stopping at a large window in the stairwell, which lead out to a fire escape situated in a side alley.

By the time John caught up, Sherlock was unlatching a window, gently easing it open bit by bit.

“What are you doing?” asked John. “Going out a fire escape in a stairwell is supposed to be better than a door?”

“Shh,” hissed Sherlock, gesturing lazily with one arm while he pushed the window open. “Sound carries easily in these spaces. Speak as little as possible. There’s no alarm on the window, obviously. Can we discuss this later?”

“Fine, fine,” said John. “I was just wondering how it is you’re so good at breaking and entering.”

When the window was finally open enough to crawl through, Sherlock slid onto the windowsill and out into the night air in one smooth motion, landing soundlessly on the fire escape just beyond. Quietly, he said, “I’ll lock it again behind you.”

John slid his bag through the window and passed it to Sherlock. “How do you lock a window from the outside when it latches on the inside?”

The Detective waved something in one hand; at first glance, anyone thought it was a leather wallet. Then Sherlock opened it, and revealed a collection of lockpicks of various sizes and shapes. “One can get so much further in life with the aid of a set of lockpicks,” he said drily.

John almost laughed. Sherlock, whoever he was, made no sense. But he was anything but boring.

And then there were footsteps.

“Go, go!” called a stranger, and multiple people could be heard flying down the stairs from only one floor above.

… Ah.

Security.

Sherlock gestured sharply for John to climb out the window. John quietly did, feet first, landing on the fire escape next to Sherlock with a muffled clang of metal.

“What was that?” called someone from inside up the stairwell, a little too close for comfort.

Without waiting to assess the situation further, Sherlock slammed the escape window closed.  “I do believe that is our cue to leave,” he said crisply, turning, and immediately slid down the ladder back to earth, jumping off a few feet above the ground and landing with a feline sort of grace. “So much for relocking the window. Come on, John!”

John looked after Sherlock and swallowed. “The hell am I _doing_ ,” he sighed, but he wasted no more time before shouldering his bag, swinging down onto the ladder as well, and climbing down as fast as he could, until he joined Sherlock at the bottom.

His feet had barely touched asphalt when Sherlock took off down the alley, his dark coat billowing out behind him.

John blinked, and then ran after him, clutching his bag in his right hand and running as fast as he could.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to find John practically sprinting to keep pace. A head taller than John and with much longer legs, Sherlock maintained the lead with no difficulty. “Hurry up!” He could hear voices behind them.

The dark London streets around them were nearly empty at this hour. A few late-night passerby traversed the night on their way home from their respective pubs, and the distant hum of background traffic was interrupted for only the briefest of seconds by running footsteps as Sherlock, and then John, ran down sidewalks and across parking lots and around bends and under overpasses. Every now and then John would fall inevitably behind, and Sherlock would pause only long enough to call a “come on, John!” before John would start up again.

The Detective ran and the Doctor followed.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock knew, with a few glances back over his shoulder after a solid fifteen minutes of running, that they were not being pursued. For the sake of being absolutely certain, he slowed his pace but did not actually stop for several more minutes. John caught up, until the two of them were moving along at about the same speed. Every time a particularly fast-moving car drove up the road behind them or someone exited a building talking a little too loudly, they sped up again. They kept going until, finally, Sherlock slowed and then stumbled to a halt at the front steps of a set of nice looking flats over a small café and deli (a place called Speedy’s, closed for the night). Gold letters on the door were just legible in the dim light of the street lamps, spelling ‘221B’.

Sherlock unlocked the door and stepped into the dark hallway inside, where he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. He would tackle the stairs in a moment.

John joined him. He dropped his bag on the floor and tottered over to the wall for support, completely out of breath.

“Holy shit,” he gasped finally.

“That was eventful,” said Sherlock breathlessly.

John giggled feebly. “I was going to say something more along the lines of that was the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“ _That_ was the craziest? You invaded Afghanistan,” said Sherlock.

John burst out laughing. “That wasn’t just me,” he objected, pressing a hand over his heart. It pounded against his ribcage. There was something oddly reassuring about that. It was very distinctly real. He wasn’t sure when he’d last felt quite this sort of alive.

Sherlock glanced at John; he could read that thought written across his face through the laughing, and something about it was – satisfying. John’s laugh sounded as genuine as his praise had earlier that day. “Welcome to London.”

John laughed again.

Sherlock permitted himself a quiet and fleeting laugh as well. He finally sighed, heart rate approaching a more normal speed. He straightened and brushed off his coat, pulling off his leather gloves and pocketing them. “I rent the flat upstairs. I assume you want tea?”

“God, that’d be brilliant,” said John, still out of breath, but as Sherlock started up the stairs to the second floor, John picked up his bag once more and followed.

They reached the second floor, and Sherlock opened another door to reveal a set of rooms. He stepped inside and went straight for the kitchen (turning on the kettle and hiding a few of the more unusual chemicals he’d been studying by stuffing them into his oven mitt), while John looked around the flat.

The rooms were quaint and dimly lit, with a collection of mismatched furniture and knickknacks scattered about. A beautiful and painstakingly well-kept Stradivarius sat on a stand in the corner, surrounded by sheet music and pencil nubs. Papers and books lay strewn about on almost every available surface. A human skull sat on the mantelpiece, surveying it all.

John set his bag down next to the door, and stepped inside. He looked around the rooms, taking it all in, and didn’t say anything until Sherlock said from the kitchen, “Do you mind shutting the door? I’d rather not have my landlady wander through asking about the noise and complaining about her hip again.”

“Right, right,” said John, closing the door quietly. Now that they’d stopped running, and he had the oxygen needed to direct his brain to matters besides breathing and not losing sight of Sherlock charging ahead in the dark, his questions were beginning to reemerge.

He strode to the entrance to the kitchen, just as Sherlock finished stowing the last of the dichloromethane behind the sugar, and paused, opening his mouth.

“You have questions, I assume,” interrupted Sherlock before John could start.

“Uh,” said John, surprised. He nodded. “Yeah. More and more by the minute, actually.”

“I thought as much.” The Detective had a few of his own, if he was honest. However, he wanted clear and concise answers. “Might I suggest you catalogue and compile your questions, and we may discuss things fully in the morning? I doubt you have the mental clarity desirable for such a heady conversation after the night’s events.”

John considered this before nodding again, more amused by Sherlock’s vaguely insulting way of speaking than anything, and too in-need of tea to disagree. “Okay. Okay, that’s reasonable, I suppose. Tea and bed.” He looked around. “Do you mind if I stay here the night, then? I can get out of your way tomorrow once I’ve—you know, once we’ve sorted things, but for now…”

John trailed off at the unabashedly exasperated expression on Sherlock’s face.

“What?” he said cautiously.

“I sincerely hope your questions aren’t _all_ going to be so stupid,” said Sherlock.

“Um—“

“You’re a recently deceased army doctor with no connections in London,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re planning to do or where you’re planning to go, but given that information, it’s undoubtedly going to be stupid.”

John blinked. “Then…?”

Sherlock thought.

The necessary course of action was obvious. But Sherlock paused for consideration anyway, largely because this meant accepting responsibility. But it was far too late to turn back now. He’d gone this far. He’d accepted the Case. The Game was on.

“The logical course of action would be for us to share the flat,” said Sherlock. “Long-term. Until the case has reached its conclusion, at the very least. Your involvement could offer key insight. It seems obvious that the most sensible plan would be to give you a room here. We can discuss details and finances in the morning when I’m less utterly disinterested in doing so. This arrangement would enable us both primary access to the case—I don’t have to go out of my way to get in touch with you, and you are able to lie low with convenient access to information as things progress until we are able to develop a more thorough course of action. Agreeable?”

John blinked, processing this rather businesslike proposal with a nod, and then a few more. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, actually, that would be good. Thanks.”

Sherlock ignored the thanks. “We can reopen the discussion tomorrow. For tonight, will the sofa suffice?”

“That’d be brilliant,” said John, glancing back at the sofa.

Sherlock strode into a hall next to the kitchen and opened a door to reveal a small linen closet. “Help yourself. And help yourself to whatever you want for tea.”

“Thanks.” John strode over to the linen closet, getting out a couple sheets and a warm throw. “Aren’t you having any? Tea, that is.”

“Make two cups. Milk is in the fridge and tea and sugar are on the counter,” said Sherlock with a careless wave of the hand. John nodded once more and smiled (Sherlock got weirder and weirder by the minute), and then he returned his attention to setting up a bed on the sofa.

Sherlock got out his phone and walked absently to the living room, sitting in his preferred chair by the window while John bustled about. John glanced at him with a curious expression—the speed with which Sherlock went from prying and scrutinizing to utterly disinterested was bizarre—as he went.

John quickly finished setting things up on the sofa and paused. “I’m just going to lie down for a second, do you mind? I’ll make tea in five,” he asked, turning back to Sherlock.

Sherlock said nothing, engrossed in his phone.

John waited a full minute before he repeated the question.

Nothing. Not even a twitch to reveal he’d heard John at all.

“… Hello? Anyone in there?” said John jokingly, and when Sherlock still said nothing, John sighed.

“I’ll take that as agreement,” he said, sitting down on the couch and lying back with a care for his shoulder. He dragged the blanket over himself and settled back.

 

~o~O~o~

 

God, this was insane.

This was all insane.

The idea of sleeping at all was almost appalling. John wasn’t sure he’d ever sleep again. He had so many questions he wanted to ask…

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock scrolled through an online listing of police responses to 999 calls and other reported incidents throughout the Greater London area and surrounding suburbs. Nothing about Bart’s. This was unexpected, but not a bad thing. Although there would almost certainly be something by morning. With luck, however, security footage wouldn’t reveal anything identifying or incriminating. He’d been careful to leave no fingerprints. And Sherlock _had_ been there earlier that day. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have an excuse if fingerprints or other identifiers were found.

The big issue would be the body suddenly missing from the morgue.

That would be the real problem.

When a body vanishes, the last thing people would think is that it got up and walked out. And Sherlock intended to keep it that way.

Nothing could trace back to Sherlock. If he could keep Lestrade and all other prying eyes unaware of John’s presence in the flat for the time being, then it would all go away in time. It was a waiting game, and Sherlock was determined he’d win that as well.

This certainly promised to be a case unlike anything else he’d dealt with before. A challenge from all sides.

Sherlock loved a challenge. He lived for them. He lived for not being bored.

He checked the reports again, and still found nothing. Either they were in the clear, or it was still being investigated. Either way, all was quiet for now, and it wouldn’t be until morning that word of a body stolen from the morgue of St. Bartholomew’s would circulate.

Sherlock’s thoughts were at last interrupted as the kettle began to whistle, and Sherlock looked up.

“Tea,” he said, looking around for John.

John was asleep on the sofa.

After a moment’s pause, Sherlock quietly got up, heading out of the room. He patted the skull on the mantel as he went, turned off the kettle, and then he retreated to his bedroom, and closed the door with a gentle click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh John  
> silly John  
> what mess have you gotten yourself into
> 
> Thank you all for all of your comments and feedback - all the support mean the world to me and I'm really glad the story's been entertaining!  
> Now we begin to delve into the real dramas… bwahaha.
> 
> I do go back to uni this week, but with any luck there won't be any major interruptions to the posting schedule. Fingers crossed!


	7. 221B Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another slightly-longer-than-usual chapter!  
> (I think this is going to become a trend…)

Something was burning.

It had to be one of the barracks again, John was sure. That or an ambulance engine had overheated. Fixing it was going to be a nightmare, it’d be midday and well over thirty Celsius before they finished. And they would really have to hurry, they were expected to pick up the new shipment of supplies for the mobile hospital just west of the village…

John opened his eyes.

Instead of the familiar barrack ceiling overhead, he was somewhere completely different.

John sat up fast, and his entire body ached as he did, and he looked left and right all around the room.

“Where the hell am I.”

“Can’t talk. Need to watch this potassium nitrate until it’s completely burned off,” said a voice from across the room.

John whipped around to see Sherlock Holmes seated at the kitchen table with his eyes fixed on a Bunsen burner apparatus producing a bright purple flame.

The memories of the previous day suddenly came flooding back.

John decided he really needed to lie down again and sank back on the sofa.

“Oh God,” he said to the room at large.

“Not quite,” said Sherlock absently.

John took a few minutes to organize his thoughts, during which time the only sound in the flat was the gentle roar of the Bunsen burner in the kitchen and the faint hiss as whatever it was Sherlock was burning was slowly consumed by the little fire.

This all seemed a hundred times more insane after a few hours of sleep.

Sleep had done nothing to shorten the list of questions. In fact, there were more with each passing minute.

In the kitchen, Sherlock watched his experiment—an ongoing, idle pastime aimed at producing flammable ink in various colors—until the last of the chemical was burned away. He wrote down a few notes in his scrawling handwriting in a small book, turned off the burner, and turned to look at John.

“Overwhelmed,” he said at last.

“What?” said John, broken from his reverie.

“You. Overwhelmed,” observed Sherlock again. He was not surprised. Amused, perhaps. It seemed John’s thoughts were operating on some kind of delay system, which Sherlock thought stupid but not atypical. News of this kind might take time to process, after all. And Sherlock could only imagine what it would be like, to be on the receiving end of an event like his.

John gave a rather dry laugh. “No kidding,” he said, pressing his palms to his eyes for a moment before sitting up. He looked at Sherlock. “Right. We need to talk, I think.”

“That much is obvious. You should make tea,” said Sherlock, heaving an impatient sigh. “You’re undoubtedly going to want it before we begin discussing things. Kettle should still be hot if you would like; I needed it earlier to heat water to disinfect my petri dishes.”

“Tea,” said John, automatically getting to his feet. He was sore, his shoulder most of all, and he hobbled stiffly over to the kitchen and started getting out the necessary things to make a few cups. “I fell asleep last night before I could make it, I guess—sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” said Sherlock, thoroughly disinterested, instead watching John walk to the kitchen with a scientific scrutiny.

John’s left shoulder seemed to be in pain. Sherlock frowned, eyes narrowing. It most likely wasn’t the injury. Sherlock had extensively studied the aftereffects of his Gift on those he touched in the past. Even as a boy, Young Sherlock had taken those effects very seriously, and committed everything to memory. He knew, therefore, from years of examination, that the fatal injury should not hurt. The reasoning behind this wasn’t solid, but he suspected that it was somehow essential to sustaining the life of the person he’d brought back. So, then, if the pain was not physical, it may be psychosomatic? Or were there lasting effects from leaving a person alive more than a minute that Sherlock didn’t know about?

More information was needed, Sherlock concluded.

John bustled about for a few minutes making tea, and when he’d made two cups, he set one on the kitchen table next to Sherlock, carefully placed amidst the various scientific instruments scattered across the surface. Sherlock ignored it, then looked back at it sharply.

“Sugar and milk,” he commented.

“That okay?” asked John, his own tea with milk and no sugar.

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly to the side. “Fine. Astute of you. I suppose my possession of both and the location of the sugar on the counter by the stove as opposed to stowed in a cabinet may have hinted that was my preference.”

“Just a guess,” said John, with a brief smile. He circled to stand on the side of the table opposite from Sherlock, leaning against the tabletop slightly and holding his own mug of tea. “I’m glad, though. Considering how easy it was for you to figure me out last night, it’s nice to know I can attempt to do the same to you. Attempt. _Attempt_.”

Sherlock tried not to laugh. “It’s a start. Not exactly the most impressive deduction, but at least you’re not completely hopeless.”

“Uh, thanks?” said John uncertainly.

“I’m not sure that was a compliment,” said Sherlock.

“Neither am I,” admitted John. He paused, and said, “I suppose we need to talk. About the me being alive… thing. And I have other questions too. I mean, all of that stuff you knew about me, yesterday. About me and how I died and everything. You really just—you know, figured it out on the spot?”

“Mostly.” Sherlock laced his fingers, hands now resting on the tabletop.

“Blimey,” said John, sounding impressed.

“That was barely scratching the surface,” said Sherlock carelessly. “I was on the clock. I didn’t have the time to elaborate.”

“You’re kidding,” protested John.

“I don’t kid.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“So, what, is that your job? You’re like a detective.”

“A consulting detective.”

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Because I invented the job. I am the only one.” Sherlock gave a careless shrug. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”

 John took a large gulp of tea. “What do you mean?”

“Any information I might require is readily available to me. A person can identify an airline pilot by his right thumb, if they know what to look for. The same can be said of anyone. But most people don’t look. They see, but they do not observe, so they miss everything of value, whereas I can learn nearly anything I need. And learn far more.”

“Like…?” prompted John. He was hooked now, leaning more heavily against the table, fortified by tea and curiosity.

Sherlock gave John a sweeping glance. _Sand. Tan. Hair. Jumper. Lines. Eyes. Shape of mouth. Duffel. Paper. Gun. Left shoe. Teacup. Left ring finger. Hands._

Sherlock paused, for only a split second, to debate how much to say. But his own curiosity won out, clamoring to see what sort of reaction this string of deductions would receive, and it took all of two seconds for Sherlock’s inquisitive, scientific, and slightly vain mind to take off at full tilt.

“Let’s look at you, for instance. Some of the more obvious facts you know I know,” began Sherlock at a quick pace. “For instance, we have already established from our conversation in the morgue yesterday that you are—or at least were—an army doctor. You said you were stationed in Sangin, Afghanistan. I was informed you are a captain. I can gain further information without too much difficulty. Your dog tags and uniform indicate that you’re a member of the 5th Northumberland Fusilier battalion. You said you studied at Bart’s, so while you were trained in London, as you yourself stated, you are not a London native. I’m thinking you’re from south and west of London. Maybe Rushmoor. Your accent, and the way you drink tea, supports this and confirms that you are English. The sun-bleached highlights in your hair and the strength of your tan around your wrists and neck contrasted with the skin further up your arms would suggest you have been deployed for a number of months, and have been actively working most, if not all, of that time. You work in the field. Your mannerisms suggest a serious and businesslike attitude towards your work.”

Sherlock stood, took a short sip of tea, and paced around the table and out of the kitchen. John straightened and followed, tea in hand, staring at Sherlock as the Detective continued, “Your face, meanwhile, suggests your age is somewhere in the mid-thirties range. You’re left handed, as evidenced by the hand you’re using to hold your cup. Unmarried, also suggested by your hands. Never married. No children. Left foot is dominant foot. Mildly flatfooted, corrected with insoles. No significant medical history of your own, disregarding being fatally shot. Few belongings, little of sentimental value. Modest financial means. Parents likely deceased. One brother, perhaps, as there is one letter in your duffel—I saw it last night. The name Harry written on the envelope with a return address in Doncaster supports it’s a relative or old friend or colleague from your youth. However, the way it’s been carelessly shoved in amongst your other belongings says brother, as you’re more likely to be careless with a sibling you argue with than with a friend who’s taken the trouble to write. Writing on the envelope is sloppy and smudged. Careless. Might indicate someone who did it absentmindedly or at the last minute. Return address sticker is a different name—a woman’s, Clara—so, is your brother married? But the letter has no mention of Clara, so I’m thinking it’s an ex, likely ex-wife. Your brother’s just too lazy or too cheap to get new address stickers. And in spite of the evidence suggesting this is a brother or close relation, you have yet to mention them at all and you have disregarded the letter. So, you and your brother don’t get along. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don’t like his drinking.”

Sherlock stopped at his chair by the window. “This was your personal bag, and the way you perused it yesterday suggests it was as you’d last seen it and had not been tampered with, so the placement of objects reveals plenty—for instance, the condition of the letter. You have a handgun stowed in there. Your bearing reveals you are serious, cautious, and assertive. And may, on occasion, curse like the best of them.”

Sherlock turned and lazily dropped into his chair, and steepled his fingers under his chin. “Have I missed anything?”

John gaped at Sherlock.

“How,” he said, “could you possibly know about the drinking?”

Sherlock rarely got absolutely everything right, but he was pleased at the question. “I didn’t, but thank you for sharing,” he said blithely, trying not to smirk. He could deduce, and he could bluff. And he could do both rather well.

John stared. “Do you do that a lot?”

“Constantly,” said Sherlock bluntly.

John sat down in a chair opposite Sherlock and drained half of his tea in one gulp. “That was amazing.”

Sherlock blinked. There it was again. There was that praise—that odd, perplexing, unexpected praise. “… You think so?”

“Of course I do,” said John, with an expression of dazed amazement. “It was extraordinary. I’m not even mad that you read my mail. I mean, that was… quite extraordinary.” John seemed a little at a loss.

Sherlock gave it a minute, waiting for reality to catch up, and tried not to let the praise go to his head.

 _Tried_.

At last, John spoke. “Okay, I have questions,” he said, setting down his mug.

“Mm. All right. First question,” said Sherlock, and he sat back in his chair expectantly.

 “Where the hell are we?” asked John.

Sherlock snorted in amusement. Oh, this was going to be _riveting_.

Even the Detective’s inner monologue had a tendency for sarcasm.

“221B Baker Street, London.”

“Okay.” John licked his lips; an indicator of uncertainty. “And you’re still all right with me staying here a while?”

“Yes. Although—“ Sherlock set down his phone and gave John a look. “—how do you feel about violins?”

“Violins,” repeated John uncomprehendingly.

“Specifically at odd hours of the night and possibly early morning. I like to play when I’m thinking.”

“Uh.”

Sherlock laced his fingers once more in front of himself. “I also don’t talk for hours at a time. Occasionally days. It’s nothing personal. Unless it is.”

“Um.”

“I may also have chemicals lying about, and might use the kitchen table for experiments.” Sherlock sighed. “Problem?”

“Uh,” said John yet again, and then he shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. All fine.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, with a satisfied finality. “I’ve already discussed the issue of living space with my landlady this morning. The bedroom upstairs is through that door—“ Sherlock pointed to a door to the left of the fireplace overtop of which the skull was still surveying the room. “—and is yours. There’s also a bathroom. There’s another bathroom here—“ A gesture down the hall. “—and obviously we share the kitchen, living room, and rent.”

“All right, but we’re going to need to come back to that later,” interrupted John. “I need to figure out the situation first. The…” He waved his hands in a hopeless search for the right words, and finally just gestured to himself. “This. Please.”

“You were dead. Now you aren’t,” said Sherlock flatly. He would need a more detailed question. Because he wasn’t entirely sure where or how to begin himself.

John sighed, a little frustrated. “I don’t – understand how that works.”

Sherlock considered how to explain. He’d never done this before. He had told Lestrade of his gift, obviously, months ago, but he had never explained it to someone who had experienced it firsthand. Who was living it. ‘Living’ being the key word. “It’s difficult to explain,” said Sherlock at last, with a hint of hesitance in his tone. “It’s something of an ability of mine. The origin and reason are unknown, but quite frankly, that is the least concerning aspect of it.”

“Right, so.” John organized his thoughts and continued questioningly, “So, you can touch a dead person and bring them back to life. But if you touch them again… they die?”

“More or less,” said Sherlock with an affirming nod. “First touch, life; second touch, death, forever, permanently. Which,” he added, “is why I told you not to touch me yesterday. And I will ask you not do so in future. I acknowledge when sharing living quarters this may be complicated, but I must insist.”

“No, no, of course, no touching,” agreed John, nodding. He could be careful. But a thought occurred then, and John pursued it. “So, wait. You were working on investigating my death, yeah? That’s part of your job. You touch dead people and ask them how they died so you can catch the killers?”

Sherlock felt a little wary of the dull edge to John’s tone, but nodded once more. “Yes.”

“So how many other people have there been, like me?” inquired John, and Sherlock felt rather uneasy now. “People you’ve brought back and kept around to help solve the case?”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “Just – you. No one else. Ever.”

“Just me,” repeated John.

“Just you,” said Sherlock, breaking his own rule about avoiding repetitious conversation at all costs in his determination to establish this was _not_ a regular occurrence. That John was a singularity. That John was, somehow, for some reason, the exception to the Rules.

John swallowed. Being the only person was perhaps worthy of concern, but he couldn’t help but feel it was significant, more than anything. He was needed to solve this. Needed as a source of information, rather than a source of evidence. And that carried weight. It carried purpose. It _meant_ something, even if he wasn’t sure quite what yet.

Maybe it should have made him trust Sherlock Holmes less.

But instead, it did the opposite.

John’s expression softened a little, though it remained intently focused. “So how long do people usually get to stick around for?”

“A minute,” said Sherlock automatically. After all, this was a fact. Sherlock could operate in fact. Now, to steer the conversation back to more—

“Why a minute?” asked John, like the predictable moron he was, and Sherlock’s entire mental alarm system went off, flashing ‘PROCEED WITH CAUTION’ in all sectors.

Sherlock actually babbled, “Standard unit of time. And anyway, a minute is a long time. A lot can happen in a minute. The longer a person is around, the more likely it is that something horrible can happen—not that this is any fault of theirs, or maybe it is. I'm only saying…”

John’s eyebrows were rising with each passing, awkward sentence.

Equally because he feared John would soon catch on that he was hiding the complete truth and because John’s eyebrows might soon reach his hairline and vanish forever if he kept raising them like that, Sherlock clarified, carefully and firmly, “It limits the risks.”

John blinked. “Oh,” he said, thrown by the rapid change in explanation reasonableness. But the answer seemed valid. After all, John being alive this long was already evidently not without complications.

Speaking of complications. John instinctively put his hand over the wound in his shoulder. “Is this a risk.”

Sherlock shook his head sharply. “No.”

“No?” asked John in disbelief. “But… I mean, I assumed since I’m okay, and don’t get me wrong, I’m glad, but – how? It’s an open bullet wound!”

“I’m not a doctor,” said Sherlock. “Perhaps you can tell me. My understanding is limited on this side of things, but my belief is that at the moment of contact, your body instantly restored or regenerated the parts of your body that are essential for sustaining life. In this case, the veins, arteries, and bone that had been damaged when you were shot. The skin and some of the muscle is only superfluous, so you keep the gaping hole. But the damage has been repaired, for all intents and purposes. And to my knowledge, those changes are permanent, unless we came into contact again. At which point they would become undone, and you would die.”

“So, then…” John tugged at the collar of his jumper, peering at the wound. “So the supposedly severed subclavian artery is now fixed… magically.”

“I hate the word ‘magic’,” said Sherlock sourly. “It is an improbable and spontaneous and instantaneous application of anatomical reconstruction in extremely rare and isolated circumstances not yet understood by mankind. But yes. More or less.”

“Look, we can call it magic, we can call it a miracle, we can call it whatever the hell you want,” said John. “That part doesn’t matter so much.” He rubbed his shoulder absently. “I think I’ll patch this up anyway. It’s a clean shot and all, but if I’m going to be around for a while, I think I’d rather not have a gaping hole in my shoulder. Hopefully I can fix this myself, though, so I don’t have to try to explain it to a surgeon.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “Good idea. Better for you, I’m sure. I am curious to see how you heal now that your body is now instantly renewing on the cellular level. Recovery time may be interesting.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” said John. It was clear from his expression that he was noticing how many times he had said something along the lines of ‘I don’t understand’ in the course of the conversation so far. But Sherlock conversed by way of overcomplicated jargon more often than not.

“Your body is constantly regenerating cells and vitals in order to sustain life. The initial touch sets off a chain reaction, like a spark that ignites an expansive coal mine. It could burn forever. The process is endless.” Sherlock regarded John with interest. “It does not heal past damage, so I’m not sure if the way you’ll recover from future injuries is affected, but the past has been made non-threatening, so that it makes the continuation of life possible. You’re semi-immortal.”

John stared, mouth open. “I’m _what_?!” he said loudly.

Sherlock frowned in surprise. He wouldn’t have guessed that this was the upsetting part. “Semi-immortal. I say semi, but—“

“Just—“ John held up his hands to stop Sherlock from continuing. He ran his fingers through his short blonde hair distractedly. “When you say immortal, you do mean immortal as in I won’t die. You’re seriously telling me I’m that kind of immortal. You can’t seriously be—“

“If you would let me finish,” Sherlock cut in tersely. “ _Semi_ -immortal. _Semi_. As in partially or incompletely. You can still die, I believe, by violent means, and perhaps even by sickness, but you won’t age, or at least certainly not in accordance with a typical timeframe. Now, I would like to discuss the matter of…”

But John wasn’t especially listening anymore. He sat back, hands pressed over his eyes. “I didn’t think this could get any more mental and then you tell me I’m sort of immortal.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed, and he took advantage of John’s momentary panic to check the message.

 

_Developments pertaining to the case._

_Meet me at Bart’s ASAP. -GL_

 

Sherlock’s blood ran cold.

He ignored the text.

“Are you quite finished?” he said, peering at John.

John lowered his hands and exhaled deeply. “Just give me a second to come to terms with the fact that this is real life and not an episode of Doctor Who.”

Sherlock had no idea what John was talking about.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair impatiently.

 _Bzzz_ , went his mobile. Lestrade was calling. Sherlock clicked ignore and made a point of knocking his phone to the floor and not picking it up.

The THUNK of the phone landing on the floor seemed to shake John from his thoughts and he sat up a little straighter. “Okay,” said the doctor, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and trying to sound level. “Okay. This is mental. But okay. This works.”

“Good,” said Sherlock crisply. “I think it should be a favorable arrangement for you. At the very least a unique experience.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” said John, but he was—unexpectedly—smiling.

Sherlock blinked—this man got stranger by the minute (which was as close to a compliment as Sherlock gave, nine times out of ten)—and said, “There are some additional things worth noting about the conditions of your being – well, here. For now, the—“ _Bzzz._ Sherlock glared at the mobile on the floor and left it there. “—full discussion regarding your…” _Bzz. Bzzz._ “… death can wait.”

John nodded. “But I would like to see this thing through. If I can. And I want to help.”

“I have no doubt your recollections could prove valuable,” said Sherlock. “For now, until I am able to secure greater access to information, I would ask you simply refrain from calling attention to the fact that you aren’t dead. Don’t call your brother—“

“Sister,” corrected John. He’d meant to earlier, but he’d been too busy being impressed. “Harry, short for Harriet.”

Sherlock stopped. “Sister.” He slapped his forehead. “Damn, that’s what I got wrong. _Sister_. It’s always something…”

 _Bzzz_.

“Do you want me to get that for you?” asked John, gesturing to the phone on the floor between them.

“ _No_ ,” said Sherlock emphatically, and he quickly scooped it up before John could accidentally see whatever the hell Lestrade was babbling on about now.

Sherlock looked at his phone reluctantly.

 

(1) Missed Call: Lestrade

 

Messages:

_ASAP as in really ASAP. –GL_

_Hello? I thought you wanted this case? –GL_

_I can send a car over if you need one. –GL_

 

And then:

 

_You. Here. Now. -GL_

 

“Idiots,” snapped Sherlock, glaring at his phone, outraged. And alarmed. He tapped out a quick reply.

 

_No need for a car. On my way shortly. –SH_

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and restarted, “Don’t call your sister, don’t contact your friends or your family or your superiors. Don’t go drawing attention to the fact that you’re here.”

“Guess you’re right,” conceded John. He felt somewhat guilty about it, but—if this really was happening—it seemed like the reasonable course to take until he (and Sherlock) could come up with a comprehensive plan. No point in placing anyone in a difficult position until they had to. Especially if it could cost someone their safety. “Better wait to do anything until the news dies down anyway. I did only just die.”

“Mm. Give it a few days. Lie low and stay out of sight,” instructed Sherlock.

 

_Now. –GL_

 

“I can do that,” said John. “Besides, probably not good if a known dead guy is spotted at Tesco’s or at the bank or something stupid like that.”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “We can address funds and precautions better when we know the circumstances. It would be foolish to act without assessing the existence of risks.”

John nodded. “Okay. So, stay here and out of sight.”

“Stay here and out of sight,” confirmed Sherlock. Out of sight and out of mind, ideally. Out of Lestrade’s mind in particular, the great, blundering, stupid, _stupid_ —

“I should take a look at the bedroom upstairs and get a feel for the flat, I suppose,” said John, looking around. By daylight, he felt he was getting a much better look at everything. Details leapt out and distinguished themselves. The place held that much more charm and character. And was that much more obviously a bit of a mess.

Sherlock suddenly stood. “Good. Yes. You do that. I need to go out.”

“Oh,” said John, frowning in surprise. “Okay. You okay?”

“Fine,” said Sherlock. He swept to the door, grabbing his coat off the back of a kitchen chair as he went and tugging it on. His phone was unceremoniously shoved in a trouser pocket. “I have a few idiots to attend to.”

“… M’kay,” said John, clearly not understanding. “I’ll just be here, then. I can move my things upstairs and get started on my shoulder with whatever supplies you and I have got.” He hesitated, and added, “Do you have a computer I could use, maybe?”

“You can’t log into any accounts or use anything that involves a password,” said Sherlock. “No email, no bank accounts, no social media—“

“No, no, right, I was just thinking of skimming the news,” John assured him. “Don’t know how long you’re going to be gone. Forget I asked, I can entertain myself here.”

Sherlock paused. Perhaps John needed to reassure himself of some details. Such as the date. It couldn’t do much harm so long as proper caution was employed, Sherlock reasoned. He gestured to the table by the window. “It’s on and open. You won’t need a password. Remember— _no_ personal information.”

John nodded and smiled. “Thanks. I’ll remember.”

“Do.” Sherlock took his scarf and wrapped it around his neck. He gave John a sweeping glance.

He wasn’t sure what to do with John.

He wasn’t sure what to do with anyone.

Sherlock hated being unsure. But being unsure did set him the urgently demanding task of finding answers—every answer he could lay his hands on—and that had to be enough.

Perhaps he should do something to help John settle in. Or figure out some way to help him come to terms with the bizarre circumstances in which he had found himself. Life was no small gift, no insignificant chance, not to be taken for granted. John had already died once. That had to be shocking enough in and of itself, without all of the additional details Sherlock had piled on in the last few minutes alone. Sherlock himself was still struggling to resolve himself to the necessary changes to his own lifestyle that this would bring. Namely coexisting with another human being without wanting to poison their evening tea every time they said something stupid.

One thing was certain.

Nothing was ever going to be the same.

For either of them.

“Don’t wait up,” said Sherlock at last in a brusque farewell, and before John had so much as opened his mouth to reply, raising a hand, Sherlock had swept out the door and was halfway down the stairs, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

John dropped his hand.

He looked around the empty flat, and with each passing second, he came to understand that he had no idea what to do.

Searching the flat for answers was only leaving him coming up empty.

The list of things to consider was only getting longer with every bit of information he’d gotten from Sherlock, and he knew a good deal of it, he would have to figure out on his own.

For which he would probably need another cup of tea.

John got to his feet, and walked over to the sofa, before he realized he had no idea where to even begin.

Hell’s bells.

John looked at the skull on the mantel over the fireplace.

“What are you looking at?” demanded John at last.

The skull simply sat there.

John groaned and laid back on the sofa.

He was going to need a lot of tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wait seriously Sherlock you can't just leave, we're in the middle of a crisis here  
> shut up skull, don't you dare judge me
> 
> ~
> 
> Kudos and comments especially are hugely appreciated! :D Thanks, all~! 
> 
> Again, I've got my fingers crossed that the start of the semester won't cause any major interruptions to the posting schedule. No promises (as I'm still working on building up a buffer of a couple of chapters… whoops), but fingers definitely crossed!


	8. Business As Usual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: thar be a lot of swearin' up ahead. And likely going forward. Not that I think anyone will mind. Uh, avast  
> (I have no idea why I turn into a pirate when I put these warnings here, but let's just roll with it)

“Ow— _OW_ ,” snarled John, for about the hundredth time that morning.

For about the thousandth time, he wished he had some sort of effective anesthetic that he could actually use for the purpose of suturing his own bullet wound. Better yet, a second doctor to do it for him.

John hissed through his teeth at the next stitch (somehow, it wasn’t getting any less painful) but couldn’t quite stop the growling “Complete buggering, _buggering_ _shi_ —“ that snuck out as he carefully tugged the needle through.

It had taken John almost no time at all to move into the bedroom on the third floor. A short trip up the small set of stairs had revealed a small bedroom tucked away. It was furnished simply with a soft green wallpaper accenting the dark furniture and the tiled bathroom, and John couldn’t help but think he was okay with living here for the time being. It was certainly more comfortable than the barracks, and John had never been one for flashy or overcomplicated apartments. He didn’t keep many possessions. He liked to keep things simple.

There was nothing even remotely simple about his current situation, and there wasn’t even anything simple about 221B, what with the myriad of experiments, odds and ends, and even the skull on the mantel cluttering every bit of space.

And yet, this small hideaway on the third floor was as quiet and ordinary as John could have hoped for, and the sight of the slightly dusty but welcoming twin bed was enough to exact a long sigh of relief.

A few trips up and down the stairs to the linen closet and half an hour of rummaging later, and John had made up the bed and put away his meager belongings in the wardrobe.

John’s first priority after he’d settled in upstairs was to attend to his shoulder. The sight of the open wound was getting more and more disconcerting with time. Perhaps, he reasoned, closing it up would ease his mind.

At least, that had been the thought forty minutes, thirty-nine seconds, and twenty-one utterances of the phrase “ _OW_ , you bloody son of a—“ ago.

The flat had yielded some medical supplies tucked into odd corners, and John’s duffel had housed a small number of items and his own medical bag thrust unceremoniously amongst his possessions. But it was by no means a comprehensive replacement for a surgical ward. And so, the topical anesthetic, hydrogen peroxide, gauze, tweezers, suture needle, and non-absorbable thread were all technically adequate, but John was having a hard time remembering that in between loud exclamations and careful stitches.

John had cleaned and prepped the wound, removed any remaining debris, and catalogued the damage as he went. The wound was relatively clean, and the arteries, muscle, and bone that had been severed by the impacting bullet really had been repaired when Sherlock brought him back. That being said, the arm was still a little weaker than normal, and his shoulder was sensitive to the touch. Or at least it felt that way mid-procedure.

The bullet had been removed before he’d come back to life, he’d found.

After fifty minutes and fifty-eight seconds of work, he was through six of the nine stitches, and John couldn’t help but think—in between the string of constant profanities he was half-shouting as he examined his progress in the bathroom mirror—that he had done a fair job.

John looked down at his shoulder. His neck was stiff from craning down to peer at his shoulder while he worked, but he painstakingly made the second-to-last stitch, and then the last stitch, with a loud exclamation of “BLOODY _HELL_!” as he tied the thread.

He secured the stitches and set down the needle on the bathroom countertop, and examined the neat row of stitches across his left collarbone. The skin would almost certainly scar, the wound a small sunburst of raw, angry skin and pale scar tissue just over his heart, but he somehow thought this seemed appropriate. Or at least it was a very stark reminder of the fact that he’d begun living a second life only twenty hours, nine minutes, and forty-one seconds earlier. And it felt important to remember this. That this was something special. Really, truly special.

Sighing, thoroughly relieved that this was done, John quickly cleaned his shoulder with a few antiseptic wipes, and tossed them in the waste bin by the sink.

The question of what to do next loomed next in his mind, and John had no answers. Fixing his shoulder was all he had thought of. He could read or explore, perhaps, but his curiosity was still gnawing at him, and John doubted he could settle down enough to scroll through the newsfeed on Sherlock’s laptop or sift through the papers scattered about the room.

This was his first day back to civilian life, John realized with a jolt.

This was his first day back as a civilian, and he had no idea what that meant. No idea what to do. No idea how to pass the time.

“I’m ridiculous,” John informed his reflection.

The more he looked at himself in the mirror, the more he started thinking of himself as a soldier injured and shipped home under (exceedingly and incomparably) strange circumstances, and less as an impossibly reanimated one, and he found he rather liked that. And while he wasn’t keen on the damage to his shoulder or the way it ached or the way it now hid a once-fatal wound, he could live with it.

He could _live_ with it, John thought, with an unexpected surge of satisfaction.

He still needed to fully wrap his head around that. But John was more than willing to try.

“Hello?” called a voice suddenly from down the stairs. “Could swear I heard someone…”

John was caught off-guard at the unfamiliar voice, so much so that he jumped a foot in the air. He wrenched around to peer out the bathroom door, and the sudden twisting in conjunction with the fresh stitches in his left shoulder were enough to earn an accidentally loud “ _Damn my arm, Jesus—_ “

John’s mind raced, alarmed. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else in the flat, he was sure of it. Sherlock hadn’t told him what to do if there were people in the flat. Which there _definitely shouldn’t be_ , so…?!

“Oh, hello!” called the voice again, and John was focusing so intently now in the grip of complete and total panic that he could tell it was an older woman. “Scared me silly with your shouting just now. I told myself, that’s not Sherlock, so who on Earth… but you must be the new tenant, let me just—“

“Ah, yes!” said John loudly. Was this the landlady or something? He could swear Sherlock had mentioned something to that effect last night or this morning… He grabbed his shirt off the doorknob and clumsily tugged it on with one hand as he shouted, “So sorry, give me just a minute, I’ll be down!”

“Oh sure, don’t mind me!” the woman answered merrily.

John almost laughed at the complete lunacy of the situation (confused terror did strange things to a person’s nerves, it would seem). After a few seconds of struggle, he managed to get his shirt on and buttoned; as an afterthought, he grabbed a length of wide cloth bandage out of his bag and looped it around his neck and across his chest to form a makeshift sling for his left arm. He should give the stitches a day or two to reduce any risk of irritation or infection, and it gave him an excuse for the shouting.

Finally, John straightened, and heaved a deep breath, before taking the plunge.

He descended the stairs and paused at the bottom, poking his head around the corner for any sign of the landlady. Sure enough, he saw that a small, older woman was bustling around the kitchen, _tch_ -ing at the chaos on the table. At John’s appearance at the foot of the stairs, she looked over at him, beaming.

“You must be John, right?” she said, still smiling, looking him up and down. “Sherlock told me you’d be moving in today. I didn’t know you’d be getting here so soon, or I’d have come up earlier and maybe tidied up a bit—mind you, dear, just this once, I’m not your housekeeper—but oh, you’ve already moved in!”

“Yeah, yeah, wanted to get in early,” said John, in a bit of a daze at the barrage of happy chattering that was the landlady. “Sorry about the noise, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He held out his free hand to shake, and the woman clasped his hand between hers gently.

“I’m Mrs. Hudson,” she said. “The landlady. No doubt Sherlock forgot to mention names. He’s a silly one, but he’s such a sweetheart…” She noticed John’s arm and tutted in a quiet exclamation. “He didn’t mention you were recovering from anything either, the great clod!”

“Oh, right,” said John, nodding at his shoulder as if he’d forgotten about it. He couldn’t think of much of a lie, so he decided on a half-truth. “I’m only just back from active duty. Still getting back to full health. Shoulder hasn’t healed up quite right yet.”

“I know what you mean, dear, I’ve got a hip,” said Mrs. Hudson with a knowing nod. “Drives me mad, sometimes. If it wasn’t for the occasional ‘herbal soother’, honestly… But anyway, how about I make us a cuppa before I head back downstairs?”

So much for lying low, John thought, but it was not as if he could have hidden from the landlady forever. And she seemed nice enough.

“That sounds lovely, thank you,” said John, and he followed the landlady into the kitchen.

“Just this once, mind, I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Of course,” said John, nodding, and he opened a cabinet. He’d only just realized he was starving. “Do you know if we’ve got any biscuits?”

“Not your housekeeper. And Sherlock hides them in the tin on the shelf.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock spent the duration of his cab ride to St. Bart’s in absolute silence.

His stony indifference effectively accomplished two goals, which were that he successfully dissuaded the cabbie from trying to strike up some kind of conversation, and that he could focus on other things and forget, for the time being, that he was in a cab.

Not that he was bothered.

He wasn’t.

Wasn’t.

Not bothered at all.

Not.

When the cab finally pulled up on the street outside the hospital, Sherlock quickly paid his fare, got out, and stalked away. In the time it had taken him to get to Bart’s, Lestrade had sent one additional text message, telling him again to meet the policeman at the morgue immediately. Sherlock’s reply—consisting of “Fine. –SH”—earned no further correspondence.

“What are you doing here, Freak?” demanded a young woman at the doors, glaring at him as he approached.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The name-calling had gotten old months ago. “I was summoned, Sergeant Donovan, as you should know full well. Your penchant for stupid questions does nothing to instill confidence in your abilities as an officer.”

“What’s he want you here for?” Donovan said, her eyes narrowing.

“Ask him,” answered Sherlock in exasperation, stepping past her to enter the building. “But in any event, I don’t plan on wasting time debating matters with you. You should try being informed for once—it’s a marvelous state of being.”

“Don’t get mouthy with me,” she cautioned, but Sherlock was already sweeping down the hall away from her, and Donovan didn’t follow.

Sherlock’s fuse was already short, and he found it getting shorter by the minute.

Perhaps that had something to do with the mild uneasiness he felt at being back here quite this soon. It was inevitable, of course, but that did not mean he would not have preferred to delay this particular interrogation for a while longer.

This would take careful handling. And absolute focus. The latter was harder to achieve, what with the source of all of this chaos currently bumbling about his flat, but Sherlock would make do.

“Sherlock!” called Lestrade’s voice from the opposite end of the hall, interrupting his thoughts.

It didn’t take a man of Sherlock’s intelligence to know that the tone was not exactly friendly. Sherlock was not one to use childish adjectives in his day-to-day conversations, but he would have deemed Lestrade’s tone ‘grouchy’, had anyone asked.

No one did, of course.

Lestrade was standing at the doors to the morgue, with his arms crossed over his chest and a deep frown on his face. Behind him and through the doors, Sherlock could see officers from the Yard bustling about.

Wonderful. Maybe their general incompetence could destroy any last traces of incriminating evidence.

“Has it been long since your last doughnut, Lestrade? You sound tetchy,” drawled Sherlock, ever sympathetic, as he reached the DI.

Lestrade scowled. “Don’t start. We need to talk.”

“I hope so. You’ve practically threatened to drag me here. So what crisis is so important that I had to be here this instant? Or are you simply not in the mood to do your job today?” Sherlock stopped in front of Lestrade and raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade pointed sharply at the morgue. “That’s what’s wrong. Our soldier is missing.”

“Our soldier is missing,” repeated Sherlock flatly.

“Yes, Sherlock, he’s missing,” said Lestrade impatiently.

“Missing?”

“Missing.”

“Are we going to repeat this a few more times, Inspector, or are you going to give me context?” said Sherlock, adopting a tone of perfect and absolute boredom.

Lestrade inhaled angrily. “I’m willing to guess you know.”

Sherlock shot Lestrade a furious look. “If I knew, I wouldn’t be here. Either provide me with a complete statement rather than some vague allusion to events, or I am leaving. I have better things to do than deal with your inadequacies.”

“John Watson’s body is gone,” said Lestrade in a tone of measured civility. “And I have a horrible feeling you know why.”

Sherlock had the acting skill necessary to know when less was more. He bristled, eyes narrowing. “Really.”

“Really,” said Lestrade, meeting Sherlock’s gaze squarely. “Look, you need to be up front with me.”

“If,” said Sherlock, his voice clipped and quiet, “you are insinuating that I had anything to do with—“

“Look, either you have something to do with it or you know who does,” snapped Lestrade, and he glanced around the hall to make sure no one was within earshot before he continued. “You were in there for a long time yesterday. And I don’t buy that it was just because you were thinking and enjoying making me jumpy as hell. So you tell me what you—“

“Details,” interrupted Sherlock. “Details. Now. Of the theft.”

“Don’t change the subject,” objected Lestrade threateningly.

But Sherlock held his ground. “I’m hardly changing the subject. It’s changed from ‘what happened to John Watson’s body’ to ‘what happened to John Watson’s body’. I don’t expect you to be a genius, Lestrade, but I would expect you to understand the reflexive property of mathematics.”

“The—what?!”

“ _Details_ ,” said Sherlock once more with a severe sort of finality.

After a moment, Lestrade reluctantly relented. “Sometime around midnight, the body must have vanished out of the coffin. Security guard doing rounds heard a small disturbance near the morgue, and came down to find it open. Went in, found an empty coffin, and all hell has since broken loose.”

“But I’m guessing from this that no one actually saw the perpetrators in the act,” said Sherlock. He was finding it something of a challenge to feign his typical interest. But Sherlock knew he needed to do even better, so he forced himself to pay closer attention. He had to abate Lestrade’s suspicions.

“No,” said Lestrade. He looked even more grouchy with this admission. “Nothing. Video surveillance around the building had an outage for half the night as well, apparently. Tapes failed to record.”

The Detective blinked in surprise.

That was an unexpected stroke of good luck.

The Detective didn’t believe in luck.

“Hm. So. Body is gone,” he said carefully. “No obvious way to identify the thieves, if your people have found no significant fingerprints on the coffin or around the building and there is no video.”

“Not to mention the timing is bloody suspicious,” said Lestrade pointedly.

“Not especially,” countered Sherlock, even as Lestrade gaped at him with an expression that clearly read ‘ _you cannot SERIOUSLY be trying to wheedle out of this_ ‘. “You’re not thinking about this, Lestrade. As usual. You’ve formed your own stupid conclusions without bothering to collect any actual data. Think about who John Watson was. Why _we_ wanted his body. Is it that hard to believe there might be others hoping to find or destroy any evidence? Though admittedly they would not have been able to discuss the existence of any such evidence with him, as we did. Which is something of an advantage for us. We’re the only ones who could ask the dead for their definitive evidence.”

“You said there was no evidence,” argued Lestrade.

“Yes, but you _normal_ people wouldn’t know that for certain,” snapped Sherlock. “Maybe the sniper’s employers were concerned. Maybe they feared they’d left their mark.”

“Sherlock…” said Lestrade, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. “Look, Sherlock, just—you can’t _seriously_ expect me to believe—“

“I can, and I do,” said Sherlock coldly. Lestrade fixed him with an uncertain look, but Sherlock could see a little doubt in his expression. “Don’t be an idiot, Lestrade. I warned you we were dealing with high-level criminals here. Criminals with clout. With weight. With finesse.”

Lestrade sighed. “Okay. Okay. Fine. Then who has the body?”

“How should I know?” said Sherlock.

Lestrade was deadpan.

“What?” demanded Sherlock. “For once, Lestrade, you know as much as I do—well.” Sherlock paused. “All right, no, you don’t, but you know everything I’ve told you concerning our crime bosses of interest here, and it’s not as if I’ve had much time or opportunity to collect any more data. Give me access to the crime scene, and maybe I can find more. But it looks as though your people have already descended upon it, and I’m not going in there if Anderson is in there.”

“You _know_ Anderson is in there, he’s my sodding forensic technician,” groaned Lestrade.

“Yes, and I’m your meal ticket,” snapped Sherlock.

Lestrade looked on the verge of having a tantrum, and Sherlock was significantly more optimistic that he’d distracted Lestrade enough to be in the clear.

“Tell me about the break-in, then,” said Sherlock, all business. He had to at least pretend he didn’t know how they (that is to say, he) had gotten in. Through the fire escape in the second stairwell…

“Loading dock,” said Lestrade, watching Sherlock suspiciously.

“Wrong,” said Sherlock automatically, trying not to laugh at the idiocy of ordinary policemen.

“… Not wrong, actually,” said Lestrade coldly, able to tell what Sherlock was thinking with regards to ordinary policemen. “They got in through the loading dock ‘round back.”

“I really do think it was a window.”

“That seems unlikely,” said Lestrade.

“Oh?” Sherlock sighed. “And why is that?”

“Because the loading dock door was busted open last night. I’m telling you, Sherlock, they got in through the loading dock.”

A sarcastic reply was halfway formulated in Sherlock’s mind when all activity ground to a halt, and started in reverse.

Sherlock stopped. “Say that again.”

Lestrade looked confused. “Say what again.”

“That, say that again, what you just said,” said Sherlock, not caring that he was acting suspicious now.

“They got in through the loading dock?” said Lestrade uncertainly. “What? They took out the alarm, broke the latch, and came right in. Apparently wandered around a bit, got into the morgue, removed the body, and then left the same way. It was still wide open this morning, and CCTV on the street did see an unmarked truck leaving from there in the middle of the night. Unscheduled.”

Sherlock remained frozen for a few seconds.

This – this was interesting.

This was _interesting_.

The loading dock was the logical way to get into St. Bart’s. Sherlock had considered that option himself the day before. It was one of the easiest ports of access, and was one of the least watched methods of ingress. High traffic in and out throughout the day coupled with a viable excuse for being there and a large door. The only hazard was that it was easier to notice a large, _open_ garage door than a nondescript open window in a distant hallway. Sherlock had decided on the window in the end because it was subtle and without an alarm.

The loading dock was not subtle.

But it was the only logical explanation if the thieves were hoping to steal a body still in its coffin.

Which meant someone else had come to collect John Watson last night.

Someone else had come to spirit Watson’s body away, without knowing that the body in the coffin would have been alive and awake and aware. John Watson had been potentially minutes away from unknowingly being disposed of by some unknown criminal entity.

Or – discovered.

John could have come face to face with the person who’d ordered the sniper’s shot that killed him, had Sherlock been any later.

 “… You’re scaring me, smiling like that,” said Lestrade, staring at Sherlock with an unnerved expression. “What did you just figure out.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers before his lips. He hadn’t even realized he was smiling. But he was. He certainly was.

Why not? The Game was _on_.

“This case just became a thousand times more interesting, and it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” said Sherlock. “It’s _Christmas_.”

“Body snatching is not a good thing, Sherlock,” said Lestrade. But the inspector was no longer looking at Sherlock with a suspicious edge.

“I expect you to forward any and all prevalent information to me immediately,” said Sherlock, not listening, completely in the grip of the case at hand. He started down the hall, leaving Lestrade behind as he walked away. He needed to check again that John had nothing of importance to tell about his death. This was too good, this was too good to put off—

“Where are you going?!” called Lestrade in exasperation after Sherlock.

“Home, where I can think without idiots asking idiotic questions!” answered Sherlock, already halfway down the hall. He waved a careless hand in farewell.

“But you only just got here—“ started an exasperated Lestrade, shoulders drooping in defeat, but he was interrupted by the appearance of his forensic technician at his shoulder.

“Boss?” said Anderson, shooting a hateful look at Sherlock’s back.

“Yeah?” said Lestrade, and he heaved a miserable sigh.

“We’ve finished inventory and cataloguing evidence. Nothing’s gone other than Watson’s body and his belongings. We’ve asked staff and they said all their other bodies are still there. There weren’t many here. Just a few from the hospital upstairs, and the cabbie that died outside yesterday. Nothing of interest.”

Lestrade rubbed his eyes. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, so we just need to try to figure out some way to get an ID on the vehicle, since it didn’t have any plates, and we’re going to…” He stopped dead mid-sentence. “Cabbie.”

“Yeah, some cab driver dropped dead out in his car right outside just yesterday,” said Anderson, pointing in the direction of the street. “Nothing sinister. Looks like a stroke or something.”

“Hold that thought, Anderson— _SHERLOCK_!” bellowed Lestrade, just as the Detective vanished out the door at the far end of the hall, the door swinging shut with a loud click.

“… Boss?” said Anderson uncertainly.

“Just get me a report on everything and everyone in the body lockers in there, and then I need an update on our progress with finding the vehicle,” snapped Lestrade through clenched teeth.

“Sure,” said Anderson, frowning at Lestrade, and he retreated back into the morgue.

Lestrade stood in the hallway for a moment, glaring at the distant door through which Sherlock had just vanished.

“… I don’t get paid enough for this shit,” said Lestrade at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock I swear to God you're the reason I've gone grey-haired  
> you're the reason  
> working with you has aged me  
> this is the price I pay  
> this is the price
> 
> THE GAME IS ON, BWAHAHAHAHAHAA
> 
> ~
> 
> So the question is -- who else was in the morgue? Dun dun DUNNNNNNN.
> 
> Another slightly challenging chapter (it's hard to figure out how to divvy up space between Sherlock and John - I always worry I'm making them boring), but I think I like how it's turned out! Lots of Lestrade, lots of John, lots of Sherlock, and lots of mystery
> 
> Next week's chapter might be late (I'm without a computer for three days -- GAH -- so I make no promises), but I'll do my best to make up for it. TT^TT  
> For now, I hope this proved a satisfactorily long AND OMINOUS chapter.
> 
> Also, quick note: I'm American, and this story is written, edited, and researched solely by me (and I am but a lowly geology student) ~ so please forgive the American spellings, geographical inaccuracies, and any gaps in medical science. I do the best research I can, but goodness knows my medical training only goes as far as basic CPR and I don't actually have a clue. XD
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3  
> Comments, kudos, subs, and bookmarks are all appreciated <3 - and comments are especially appreciated, so please leave one if you're enjoying the story thus far! ;D


	9. Concerning Living and Living Room Conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very late chapter, but hopefully it's (marginally) worth it! <3

Young Sherlock, beginning at that critical moment at eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and fifty-one minutes of age, became used to being alone.

Young Sherlock spent the vast majority of his childhood, after the discovery of his Gift, at a boarding school far from home, family, and friends. It was there, on his own, that Young Sherlock discovered the laws governing his Gift. It was there that Young Sherlock learned everything he could about controlling his ability to bring the dead back to life, by creating the Rules, and adhering to them, every moment of every day.

It was as a result of these Rules that Young Sherlock was able to gain such perfect control of his Gift. It was thanks to the Rules that Young Sherlock was able to ensure he was never again careless. It was because of the Rules that Young Sherlock was able to stop himself from ever caring about another human being.

And it was also, perhaps, a result of the Rules, that Young Sherlock learned how cruel stupid people could be.

He had chosen this, Young Sherlock would remind himself, lying awake in the middle of the night, his heart heavy with a loneliness he had long since told himself was illogical and unnecessary, as well as painful. He had chosen this.

But this did little to assuage Young Sherlock’s discomfort. And, while a large percentage of Young Sherlock’s discomfort was due to the fact that he could bring dead things back to life with a single touch, there was a little something to be said for the discomfort of being a lonely boy with no friends but many enemies.

Young Sherlock’s antisocial tendencies, the byproduct of needing to maintain distance in order to be safe, made him a natural target for his more vindictive classmates. The other boys saw his behavior as the proof of a life of comfort and cosseting, and they sought to rectify the problem, whether Young Sherlock liked it or not.

It didn’t take long for Young Sherlock to encounter the first of these instances. He would be called on to speak in class, and he would always answer correctly, and get a crumpled piece of paper to the back of the head for it the moment the teacher’s head was turned. He would be bumped in the hall. He would be teased. He would be ignored. He would be mocked. He would be hated.

And even Young Sherlock’s perfect control could suffer the occasional lapse in perfect judgment.

One well-aimed eraser bouncing off the back of his head in science class could theoretically be enough to trigger one such lapse.

Which was how, thinking of revenge and thinking of nothing at all, Young Sherlock found himself, at eight years, six months, twenty days, one hour, and six minutes, passing out dead frogs for that day’s science class experiment, and watching as the room erupted into screams of terror as the rest of the class found their frogs leaping across the room in amphibious splendor.

When the frogs had escaped into the school grounds, with no one noticing the rats in the fields that paid the price, and the class finally calmed down after their ordeal, Young Sherlock was brought to speak with his teacher and the headmaster.

“Do you have any idea how this could have happened?” the headmaster had said, in a tone that clearly revealed that he was sure the answer was yes, even though he had no evidence.

Young Sherlock met the teachers’ gazes levelly, and it was then that Young Sherlock’s understanding of the importance of deduction was fully kindled into being. For without insight, without evidence, without knowledge, it was impossible to understand anything.

And, looking at his irate teachers, Sherlock understood that they, like his classmates, would never understand.

They would never understand him, because they were only seeing the boy who’d set the frogs loose in the biology lab, and not observing the frightened and lonely young boy with the improbable Gift.

Young Sherlock vowed to keep the strange truth about his strange Gift a secret from the world forever.

So, he lied. And for the next twenty-five years, six months, and several days following this realization, keeping secrets worked beautifully.

Sherlock lied. He kept his distance. And he remained alone.

But most of all, and most importantly, Sherlock vowed to observe, not just see, everything in those places where others could not, and to never be one of the idiots who never saw what was right in front of them.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The door to the flat was open.

Sherlock paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously when he reached the top landing of the stairs a few hours after his departure that morning. It only took a few seconds for his suspicions to be confirmed.

“I should never wear cerise, apparently,” came Mrs. Hudson’s voice from within. “Drains me.”

“Uh. Good to know,” said John’s voice, with a bemused edge to it.

Sherlock could have laughed at the mundane absurdity these three sentences had in the context of the entire situation. Instead, Sherlock pushed the door open, and stopped in the doorway.

John and Mrs. Hudson were seated in the living room, with the television playing some daytime drivel quietly in the corner. Empty mugs of tea and plates were on the coffee table in a small patch of table that had been cleared of Sherlock’s papers scattered hither and yon around the room.

John and Mrs. Hudson both turned their heads around to look at him as he entered. John flashed him a somewhat apologetic look, while Mrs. Hudson simply beamed, and waved a friendly hello.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded—though not _too_ harshly—of Mrs. Hudson, as he stalked over to them, taking in the scene. Clearly they’d been talking for several hours. Sherlock could have physically winced. He didn’t trust John enough to keep secrets of this magnitude with no effort, and Sherlock trusted Mrs. Hudson not to gossip about as much as one might trust known criminals with the PIN to a checking account.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The facts were these:

Mrs. Hudson, at this exact moment aged seventy-one years, one month, two weeks, three days, fifteen hours, and nineteen minutes, had been Sherlock’s landlady at 221B Baker Street for only the last three weeks.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had met some years previously. Mr. Frank Hudson had gotten himself sentenced to death in Florida, and at Mrs. Hudson’s plea for assistance, Sherlock had ensured it.

An unlikely bond had formed, and with it had come the promise of a (very slightly) lowered rent on an apartment in central London, should Sherlock ever find himself wanting a new place to live.

Nine landlords later, Sherlock found himself once again in need of a new residence. Apparently gunfire, police cars regularly visiting, and the occasional minor explosion made him an undesirable tenant.

Sherlock had taken Mrs. Hudson up on her long-standing offer.

The rent was borderline barbaric, but the space worked well.

Short, grey hair dyed auburn, and constantly smiling, Mrs. Hudson proved herself an unexpectedly pleasant landlady, and the ideal one. Her unusually action-packed and somewhat ridiculous history meant she didn’t mind a little drama and destruction, and her biggest vices were constant complaining about a hip that justified ‘herbal’ soothers, an occasional proclivity to gambling on horse races, and a habitual tendency to gossip about everything and everyone.

Including the tenants living in 221B, which is precisely why Sherlock went to great lengths to make sure that his landlady knew absolutely nothing about his gift.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Mrs. Hudson chuckled, and patted Sherlock’s arm. “I was getting to know John, silly,” she said. “I like to know my tenants.”

“We were watching Connie Prince,” added John, giving Sherlock some sort of pointedly weary look that was utterly lost on the Detective.

“Who?” asked Sherlock, not at all interested.

“Connie Prince,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, I just love her. She really knows how to do your colors. Why, I was just telling John—“

“Fascinating,” said Sherlock drily. “Mrs. Hudson, don’t you have somewhere to be? Chatting up Mr. Chatterjee next door or some such nonsense?”

“Rude!” scolded Mrs. Hudson, although there was a distinct blush in her cheeks now. “Although I was going to pop down, see about getting something for lunch tomorrow…”

“Excellent, hate to hold you up, off you go…” said Sherlock, with an insistent sort of wave towards the door. Mrs. Hudson got to her feet, as did John, and John turned off the television with a faint expression of relief.

“It’s been so nice getting to chat, John,” said the landlady, giving John a quick little hug, which he returned with the arm not in a sling. “You’re very much welcome here. We get all sorts here and you should be right at home.”

John opened his mouth (to ask what exactly she meant by that), but Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock and continued, “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Sherlock, now that I’ve got you here, don’t think I didn’t notice the curtains in the kitchen are missing. If you set them on fire again, it’s coming out of your rent, young man.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They were ugly curtains anyway, Mrs. Hudson. The kitchen is far brighter without them.”

“Be that as it may…” she said, though she was giggling again, and Sherlock took this as a chance to usher her on her way. He practically herded her out the door, replying to her various reminders and instructions with careless affirmatives, without taking in a single word of what she was saying. When Mrs. Hudson finally stepped out into the hall and started down the stairs with a final “toodle-oo!”, he shut the door after her with an exhausted sort of relief.

John, who had watched Sherlock’s interactions with his landlady with an expression of amusement from the entryway to the kitchen, leaned on the back of the other armchair with his right arm, and raised an eyebrow. “Long day?”

Sherlock strode over to his armchair by the window and dropped into it. “I underestimated her nosiness,” said the Detective, eyes shut.

“We didn’t talk about much,” said John, looking guilty. “I told her I was recently discharged, and after that she stopped asking questions. We just had tea, and lunch. Talked a little. TV. She’s very nice.”

“God, that sounds dreadful,” said Sherlock.

“It was fine. If long. She’s very sweet,” said John. “Really, though, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t very well kick her out or ignore her or whatever.”

“Why not? I do it all the time,” said Sherlock. “I keep her on a semi-permanent mute. Though in all honesty, I do that with most people.”

“Oh,” said John, smiling faintly. “Hopefully I’m not that boring yet.”

“Not yet,” said Sherlock, opening his eyes.

Not by a long shot. Yet.

“So where have you been?” asked John, before Sherlock could continue.

“Out,” said Sherlock.

“Out where?” persisted John. When Sherlock gave him a look that said quite clearly that John had clearly spent too much time with Mrs. Hudson learning her ways, John sighed and said, “Look, I want to know what’s going on. Fair?”

“… Mm,” said Sherlock, shrugging. “The police have noticed you’re missing from St. Bart’s. I met in order to cover our tracks, and then went to gather some intelligence.”

Sherlock had left Bart’s, and then spent the better part of four hours coordinating meetings with many of his informants around London, gathering all sorts of information about the quiet, secret dealings of London’s streets from the previous night. Sherlock had spent years building up an extensive network of informants from London’s homeless. It was at times like this where it paid, to have eyes everywhere. It was worth the investment.

So Sherlock had spoken with several of his Homeless Network, and sent them out. By nightfall, he should begin to hear the first shreds of information, and by morning, he would have everything he needed to know. His Network had never failed before.

“How’d it go?” asked John persistently.

“It went well,” said Sherlock. He gave John a look. “You’re awfully inquisitive.”

“I’m…” said John. He sighed, and licked his lips anxiously, running his good hand through his short hair in a slightly agitated manner.

Sherlock frowned and sat up a little straighter. He hadn’t noticed this. Perhaps John’s agitation had been masked by Mrs. Hudson’s presence and behavior, but clearly now that John was no longer playing host, he was visibly distraught, even if he was controlling it well.

This was unexpected.

Sherlock had no idea how to deal with distraught people.

“What?” he said finally, and it came out as much more of a demand for information than a comforting query.

John rounded the chair he’d been leaning against and sat down, still looking anxious. “Admittedly, most of my morning has been watching Connie Prince with Mrs. Hudson, but I have had a little time to look around the web for news. And there’s no mention of me, anywhere.”

Sherlock frowned, giving John an uncertain look. “I’m not sure I see the problem. There shouldn’t be any mention of you anywhere.”

“No, I know, but I mean…” John sat forward. “There’s no notice of my death in the papers or anything. Which makes sense, right, since I only just got back, but there’s nothing about the attack on the news either. No mention of anything.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “It’s only been a few days since you died. Not to mention it’s a sensitive case, considering the potential terrorist threat associated with your passing. It shouldn’t be that much of a surprise.”

This was not entirely honest. Sherlock had hoped there would be minimal mention of John Watson in the records and in the news. He had not expected no mention of him.

“I guess not, but it’s just…” John rubbed his eyes, and suddenly, with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock thought he understood why.

After all, it would be too much, far too much, for a person to accept all of what Sherlock had told him as fact, wouldn’t it? It was natural, surely, for a person to doubt the truth of it. It was too improbable. Too impossible. It had taken John a few hours, perhaps, to decide this wasn’t possible, but he had finally reached the point of hateful disbelief that nearly everyone Sherlock knew had reached long ago.

“You don’t think,” said John, before Sherlock could say anything aloud, “that someone’s covering it up?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then closed it. He opened it again. “I… Pardon?”

“I mean, you don’t think it’s possible my death is being glazed over?” John repeated. He paused, before peering at Sherlock’s face in confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” lied Sherlock. “Thinking.”

“Thinking what?” asked John, but this time, the question was less anxious, and more concerned.

“Just—thinking,” said Sherlock slowly. “I think it’s too early to jump to conclusions. Considering the nature of the case. Believe me, I was dealing with the Yard all morning. They’re clueless, but on high alert.”

John sighed. He looked slightly mollified. “Okay. Okay, I just wondered. I don’t think feeling like a criminal in hiding half the day did much for my mental state.”

“Clearly not,” said Sherlock, shifting uncomfortably.

John noticed the shift, and looked at Sherlock perplexedly. “Something wrong?”

“No.” The reply was automatic. After a moment, however, Sherlock ventured, “You do – you know, believe me, then. You don’t doubt the circumstances that have resulted in your being here.”

John laughed. “No offense, mate, but you’d have to be more than a little messed up if ‘magic’ was the best bullshit you could come up with.” He laughed, frowning a little, as if wondering what had inspired Sherlock’s question. “I know who I am. I’m getting towards knowing who you are. I might think you’re something along the lines of a mad genius, but it’s not like you’re secretly the murderer.”

Sherlock gave John a dry look, but he could feel the knot in his chest loosening, like the great Amazonian serpent curled around his ribcage had found these few trusting sentences satisfying, and was letting him go.

He’d been so sure John was about to make some sort of accusation. He’d been certain. And instead, he’d found himself surprised again.

He needed to stop expecting Watson to act like ordinary people. He was making assumptions. Only idiots made assumptions.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” said Sherlock finally, thoughtfully. It actually sounded sincere, even to himself.

John smiled. “Sure. Though it’d be nice if we could actually talk long enough for you to tell me anything about you. Seeing as we’re sharing a living space and you’re the person in charge of solving my murder. We barely covered the basics this morning, and it’d be nice to know more about you than your name and address.”

“I don’t particularly do small-talk,” said Sherlock distastefully.

“We can work up to it,” replied John. He settled back in his chair. He looked much less worried now, Sherlock noted with a kind of relieved satisfaction, but not entirely at-ease.

Sherlock got out his phone.

After a few moments, he held up the screen for John to read, careful to keep out of reach lest John forget the Rule forbidding physical contact.

“The Roll of Honor hasn’t been updated since last Friday,” said Sherlock, as John leaned forward to squint at the screen. “News of your death won’t have been publicized.”

“Oh,” said John, and he sighed heavily. “Oh. Okay.”

“And again,” said Sherlock, sitting back and pocketing his phone, “there is a terrorist threat on our hands. You’re not forgotten.”

“No, no, I know,” said John quickly, and after a moment of thought, he at last looked reassured. “Thank you,” John added.

Sherlock frowned. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did,” said John.

Sherlock didn’t understand, but he decided not to push the matter. He finally nodded to John’s makeshift sling. “Repaired your arm, then? Successful?”

John looked down at the sling and nodded. “Yeah. Really strange that the wound isn’t actually painful, but stitching still hurt. But I’m still hoping it’ll heal normally.”

“With any luck,” said Sherlock, twirling his phone in his hands absently as he considered this. He’d never kept any humans that he’d brought back alive long enough to determine if healing their fatal wounds was possible, or if this was inherently out of the question. “I’d be interested to know the progress.”

“Sure,” said John. “I do live here. Shouldn’t be hard to keep you up to date. I’ll trade you updates on my shoulder for updates on solving my murder.”

“Don’t issue ultimatums,” said Sherlock, although the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a faint hint of a smile.

John, however, seemed to catch on that Sherlock was willing to consent to this deal. He smiled, and nodded, and sat back. “So. Any news?”

“Little, beyond what I’ve told you,” said Sherlock. He considered exactly how much to tell. He preferred to keep something back. Namely, what was still uncertain. So finally, he continued, “As I said, the police have noticed you are missing from the morgue. They assume body-snatching, but have no leads as of yet. Nor much in the way of a definitive motive. Obviously, there’s speculation that you could somehow constitute evidence relating to a terrorist threat in London, but I’ve already told them that you don’t, not as a dead man.”

“Right,” nodded John. “Which is why I’m here, not dead. Yeah?”

“Correct,” said Sherlock succinctly, and he fell silent. If he was being obvious, it was a more complicated issue than just John’s usefulness. He knew that. He was lying to himself if he tried to pretend it was as simple as being ‘for the Case’. There was that something about John Watson that he was trying to figure out, but he could not put this into words.

Not to mention, the Case had become that much more intriguing in the last six hours. Clearly, it wasn’t just Sherlock and the police who’d taken an interest in what John could tell, even if Sherlock was the only one who could facilitate John _telling_ those things. Sherlock knew better than anyone the secrets that could hide on a dead body. A thumb could identify an airline pilot. A tattoo could reveal a secret life. A wound could expose a killer.

“So then what intel were you gathering?” asked John, and Sherlock refocused on their conversation.

He cleared his throat. “Just trying to make sure no one saw us fleeing the morgue last night,” he half-lied. After all, he expected his Network to report such things back to him. The key information would be that concerning who _else_ had been fleeing the scene that night. Whatever else had happened under cover of night.

“Oh.” John picked at the cloth of his sling for a moment, lost in thought. “Anyone see anything?”

“Nothing incriminating,” answered Sherlock. “But I won’t know for sure for a while yet.”

John made a face. “And I’m guessing I have to keep hiding until we know the coast is clear and everything’s died down?”

“Good deduction,” said Sherlock. He checked his phone, and couldn’t fully repress the thrum of impatience when he saw no messages from his Network. It had only been a few hours, he reminded himself. Time was needed.

Of course, time was also of the essence.

“So… What do we do?” asked John.

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “The most infuriating and exhausting possible course of action.”

“Which is?”

“We wait.”

John let out a short laugh at the petulant look on Sherlock’s face, and he covered his mouth with one hand, and tried unsuccessfully to pass the laugh off as a cough. “Is that so bad?”

Sherlock responded by slouching miserably in his armchair. “It is.”

John managed to stop smiling. It seemed a little impolite to laugh, even when Sherlock was being this ridiculous. “How so?”

“The boredom is suffocating,” said Sherlock wretchedly. The mere concept of waiting, even for just half a day until his Network fulfilled its promise of information. Children looking into a room of untouchable sweets and forbidden toys did not suffer like this.

“Look, I really don’t think it’s going to be that bad,” said John. After all, he’d been more or less sitting around all day waiting for news, and he wasn’t even half as despondent as Sherlock was after twenty seconds facing the prospect of waiting for information. “Might be a good time to discuss the rent and whatever else we didn’t get to earlier.”

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “That can wait.”

“But we could also just get it done. Now seems like a good time.” John got to his feet. “I’ll make tea, and then we can talk.” He made his way over to the kitchen, and turned on the stove, the kettle already sitting on one of the burners.

In the time it took John to get two mugs out of the cabinet, Sherlock had eyed John, and then rolled out of his chair to his feet, tossed his coat over the back of it, and stalked over to the window. Sherlock picked up his violin and bow, plucked a string, and adjusted a tuning peg.

“Did you want any tea?” said John, leaning to look over at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised his violin, and began playing ‘Flight of the Bumblebee’ so fast that John saw a blur over the fingerboard instead of fingers.

“I’m guessing that’s a no,” commented John.

The tempo increased.

John rubbed his eyes wearily. “Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock  
>  _[violin]_  
>  Sherlock  
>  _[obnoxious violin]_  
>  oh my god Sherlock  
>  _[violin intensifies]_  
>  SHERLOCK  
>  _[violin approaches supersonic tempo]_  
>  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD
> 
> ~
> 
> Bonus points to anyone who caught how nerdy I am with allusions to Mrs Hudson's gambling habits from Granada!Sherlock Holmes and bumblebees. Am I a dweeb? Yes. 
> 
> Not quite as action-packed as previous chapters, but I do like to get a little bit of downtime in for our boys. Gotta build these characters somehow, though I hope it was still entertaining to read!
> 
> Fingers crossed for a timely, extra-exciting update next week (I swear, this semester is killing me - four classes and a research thesis are proving to be the death of me), to make up for the delay in getting this chapter finished and up. 
> 
> I hope this chapter can tide you all over in the meantime! Thanks all for your support! :D <3


	10. Patience, That Most Obnoxious of Virtues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for being a day late with this update!

The afternoon passed by at a meandering pace.

A few times, John asked what it was exactly that Sherlock was waiting for. The first time, Sherlock replied with a miserable “Information, obviously,” that made no sense to John. After that, his responses generally consisted of impatient grumblings, at which point Sherlock would seize his mobile and begin texting rapidly, and after a few minutes of watching Sherlock’s fingers fly over the phone’s screen, John would sigh, pick up the newspaper off the coffee table, and give up.

Before long, both men were fidgety, and impatient for information—Sherlock from the members of his Network, and John from the Detective sulking languidly about the flat.

Sherlock would sporadically get up and pace the room, or flip distractedly through his files, or even take up the violin resting by the window once more and play rapid-fire scales. Anything to keep busy, anything to keep distracted.

The waiting periods were the worst part of every case. There always came a time where the only way to acquire information was to cast his net and wait for something to snag. But during those times, the usual stimulation and preoccupation that came with the case would ebb, as the lack of new developments would open up a temporary void of inaction.

Sherlock had long since grown to loath those moments. The clamoring of thoughts and ideas and uncertainties and inconsequential nothings would crowd his mind in a deafening roar. Or, perhaps even worse, he would have nothing to think about at all.

If Sherlock had to define hell, he would likely define it as absolute, infinite  nothingness.

Boredom may be several steps down from that, but he could still see the connection. The fact that the waiting would all pay off in the imminent future did little to make him any less impatient.

John’s patience—or at least, his initial patience—was marginally fascinating to Sherlock, but only for a time. But even John’s patience wore thin after four hours and twenty-seven minutes, give or take thirty seconds, for it was then that he at last gave in to temptation and opened Sherlock’s laptop to browse the news. He’d tried the television earlier, but Sherlock had glared at the noise with enough distaste that John had switched it off, trying not to roll his eyes. The laptop was little better—“Don’t do anything that involves your identity, nothing,” Sherlock had warned within seconds of John sitting down in front of the computer—and within fifty-four minutes, John found himself aimlessly browsing from asinine webpage to asinine webpage.

When the first text came in at precisely 9:23 that night, Sherlock’s mobile buzzing once on the table some feet away, Sherlock dove at his phone with such a loud exclamation that John instinctively jerked back from the computer and slammed it shut halfway through a video of baby otters gamboling merrily around a zoo enclosure.

“What? What is it?” he asked, massaging his shoulder.

Sherlock ignored him and scanned the message.

 

_Nothing. No missing trucks last night._

_No one on main road saw anything_

_interesting either. Bill said he saw_

_truck turning left onto Marylebone_

_around 1 but nothing else._

_Also no one’s heard anything about_

_bodies getting picked up in last year or_

_two. Couple of nameless, maybe, but_

_not in our lot. Def no local grave robbers._

 

Sherlock reread this a few times to make sure he was not mistaken, ignoring the grammatical errors in lieu of the contents.

_Nothing_? How could there be nothing? How could an entire network of people have neglected to take note of something he was _this_ interested in?

“My informants have come up empty,” he said absentmindedly, already starting to text them back.

“What are they looking for?” said John, leaning forward, the sudden break in the day’s silence effectively ensnaring his curiosity.

“Anything out of the ordinary from last night,” said Sherlock.

 

_Never mind, then. Focus on the hospital. Surely someone was around Bart’s last night and caught sight of people going in or out through the service doors. –SH_

 

“Isn’t that good, then?” asked John.

“It’s not good at all.”

“Why not?”

“It means the people we’re dealing with are professionals. Which makes them that much more interesting, but also that much more annoying to find.”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” asked John in confusion, but Sherlock did not reply. He wasn’t going to fill John in on only half the details. Not if he had nothing of value to tell.

John asked a few more times, and when he started to sound like a truly irritating broken record, Sherlock waved a hand dismissively and said flatly, “Not now.”

They lapsed into a disgruntled silence. John tried not to be annoyed, but it was difficult not to be, when he knew without a doubt he was in the dark on what was happening.

At last, he gave up, and went to bed, leaving Sherlock exactly as he’d been all night, watching the phone expectantly, as it sat there, silent, answerless.

 

~o~O~o~

 

When John awoke the next morning, he found the flat empty. He looked for Sherlock, even daring to open the door to Sherlock’s bedroom by a hair’s width in the hopes of finding him, but before long it became clear that he was alone once more.

It was past noon before Sherlock returned. John had been curled up in a chair with a medical journal—which he’d discovered sandwiched between a dictionary and a very old book of fairytales that seemed distinctly out of place in Sherlock’s otherwise entirely scientific library—for nearly two hours, and he looked up sharply as Sherlock entered and shut the door behind himself.

“Where were you?” asked John, watching Sherlock tug off his long coat and toss it over the back of the sofa despondently.  “And don’t just say ‘out’.”

Sherlock threw himself down in his chair, dropping his phone onto the coffee table. “Meeting with my Network. I have a group of homeless individuals with whom I’ve established a good reputation. They provide me with information when I ask.”

“Have they found anything since last night?”

“No,” said Sherlock bitterly. “The one time I cannot afford to have them find nothing, they find nothing. This case is withering right in front of me. Our adversaries can slink away into the night and _no one_ has anything to say about it!”

“Back up,” said John. “Explain, please, because I’m lost.”

“What a surprise,” said Sherlock, with such sarcasm that John couldn’t help but feel indignant.

John threw his good hand in the air. “Right. Well, whenever you feel like actually clueing me in to whatever the hell is going on, let me know.”

“Mm,” grunted Sherlock, not looking at him, and John stomped off to his bedroom, mumbling under his breath.

The day passed in relative silence. Mrs. Hudson came around midafternoon with a tray of biscuits and a pot of tea, and John was so relieved to have some company that wasn’t just sitting in abject indignation in a corner that he actually hugged her.

They had their tea in the kitchen, chatting quietly about this and that—namely Mrs. Hudson’s hip and her methodology behind her wallpaper selection in the downstairs hallway—until Mrs. Hudson finally exhausted the topic, and collected her mugs to return downstairs.

Before she left, John nodded at Sherlock, and quietly asked, “Is he like this a lot?”

Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly. “I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on in that silly head of his.”

“At least it’s not just me,” said John, heaving a sigh.

Mrs. Hudson patted his uninjured arm. “He’ll be on the move again in no time. He’s one of those big-thinker types. Always has to have something to do…” And with that, she took her leave, and John busied himself with tidying up first the kitchen, then the linen closet, then the scant areas of the sitting room that weren’t covered in Sherlock’s books and papers. When he’d exhausted every source of distraction he could think of, he sat down in the living room again.

“Anything?” asked John, though he already knew the answer.

“If there was anything, John, you’d be the first to know,” said Sherlock.

Considering how little he knew about what was happening, this seemed unlikely. But John decided to consider this brief exchange progress, and he didn’t push the matter any further.

It was funny, really, John thought, as he watched Sherlock sit there, lost in thought.

For someone so gifted at uncovering all of everyone else’s secrets, Sherlock seemed incomparably adept at keeping all of his own buried somewhere deep down and out of sight.

Shadows traced their way along the walls, and time stretched on with incredible slowness. The only sign of life was their quiet breathing, and the tap of Sherlock’s fingers drumming out rhythms on the arm of his chair.

 

~o~O~o~

 

After a long time, John looked over at Sherlock and said, “Is this some kind of test?”

Sherlock was by now curled in his armchair, his legs drawn up to his chest, his blue eyes fixed on his mobile phone in pure, unadulterated loathing as it lay silent on the coffee table. He’d been that way the better part of the afternoon. At John’s question, however, he looked up. “Pardon?”

“This,” said John, with a vague gesture. “I’m just wondering if this is what you’re always like when you’re cross about something, or if you’re just gauging how long it’s going to take for it to piss me off.”

_Rampant reflexive trust issues,_ quipped Sherlock’s mind, and he filed that deduction away for later examination. He was confident he already had John’s partial trust, but not his complete trust.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said.

John sighed. “Both, then,” he said. He was evidently frustrated. “How long are you going to keep glaring at your phone?”

In answer, Sherlock shot his phone one last hateful look and finally kicked it off the table.

John raised an eyebrow.

“It would appear,” said Sherlock finally, “that we were not the only people in St. Bart’s who shouldn’t have been that night.”

John blinked. “Wait. So… so when you and I were leaving Bart’s, there was a break-in? By someone that wasn’t you.”

“Apparently.” Sherlock sighed. “They entered shortly after I retrieved you from the morgue, and were apparently after rather the same thing I was.”

“You were there to get me,” said John, frowning.

It was Sherlock’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

After a long moment, John paled a little. “Oh.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock. “Those responsible for the events in Afghanistan are bolder than I had initially thought. And apparently very determined to leave the police with nothing.”

“But—I don’t understand,” said John. “There’s no reason to want to collect my body, at least for anyone other than you. I didn’t know anything. I wasn’t part of anything. Right?”

“Who knows?” replied Sherlock. “These people certainly don’t. The only person capable of asking you what you know, John, is me. Ordinary people cannot ask the dead for answers. If they could, the world would be a very different place. But my abilities are entirely unique to me. Believe me, I have done the appropriate searches and made the correct inquiries. If there was anyone else who could do this, I should think he or she would be known to me. Instead, it is down to you and I to figure out what it is these people are so set on covering up.”

John rubbed his eyes, letting this new information sink in. After hours and hours of nothing, this almost felt like too much. “It all comes back to this supposed terrorist threat, right? The one you were all hoping the informant I was trying to help told me about before I died.”

“Correct.”

“But I don’t know anything about that,” said John again.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered in John’s direction, scrutinizing his face, his voice, his assertion, and he knew John was telling the truth.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls. “I would be willing to guess the operation is a fairly major one. A long-standing one. The person pulling the strings will have invested a great deal in it, if they are willing to steal bodies and kill—and go to great lengths to kill—in order to deprive investigators of anything to go on. Beyond that… I know nothing.”

John worried his lip. “If there’s an actual terrorist organization behind this entire mess, there’s a lot riding on this. A lot of _lives_ riding on this.”

“I _know_ ,” said Sherlock flatly. “I’m well aware.”

John paused, before he finally nodded, and let out a long sigh. “Well. At least one thing’s gone right.”

“Hm?” hummed Sherlock, with a skeptical expression.

“You got to me first,” said John simply.

Sherlock did not reply right away, not really sure what to say.

“… There is that,” he said slowly. He steepled his fingers, the gentle thrum of thought whirring in the back of his mind becoming a little faster. “Which means, whoever it was that was hoping to remove your body that night will be wondering who got there first. This will confuse them. They’ll be focusing on the police and the government in their efforts to find out what has transpired. They won’t be looking in any of the right places. They’ll have to be careful, now, thinking the police are on to them. Or that this is a threat from within. They might get cowardly, or they might get stupid.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together. “Nine times out of ten, they get stupid.”

“And the other one time?”

“They get _interesting_ ,” said Sherlock with relish. “I have a feeling this may be one of those times.”

“You’ve got to keep me up to date on these things,” said John, sitting back. “Look, I know you’re bored sitting around waiting, but until about twenty minutes ago, I didn’t even know what we were sitting around waiting _for_.”

“Oh.” Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t considered this. But then, he’d long since grown utterly unaccustomed to working with other people.

“Collaboration 101,” said John, and Sherlock couldn’t help but think it sounded a little too smug. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this, say, _yesterday_?” continued John.

“It isn’t scientific,” said Sherlock, and when John simply looked confused, he elaborated, “I don’t find it particularly fruitful to share only partial bits of information. It wouldn’t have done anything other than make you anxious. But beyond that, I don’t want anything you have to say about your death to be colored by new information. It’s about keeping the source material pure.”

John considered this. “But, I mean, that’s nice and well and good and all, but this isn’t exactly an impartial experiment. I _am_ a person, Sherlock. Not like you spared me much anxiety, in any event.”

“I can see that now,” Sherlock conceded.

“Let’s make a deal,” offered John. “You keep me up to date with _everything_ and stop with the ‘hours and days of unexplained silence’ thing, and I’ll make sure not to overreact. Calm and collected. Deal?”

This was not the perfect arrangement, Sherlock knew. For one, he was breaking the deal right from the very start. John didn’t know everything about his being alive again, and Sherlock wasn’t about to tell him. Sherlock wasn’t going to tell him about the cabbie. He wasn’t going to tell him about the one-minute rule. And for another, Sherlock knew no one, save himself and a select few, who could remove emotion from the equation. And John was not one of them.

But perhaps this would be a good thing.

It could work. It couldn’t be any more inconvenient than dealing with Lestrade, after all. Right?

“I accept your terms,” said Sherlock solemnly, with two fingers mentally crossed.

John extended a hand to shake on it, and then remembered they could not, and dropped his hand with a laugh. “I’m holding you to it.”

“I’m sure you will,” said Sherlock, with the smallest of return smiles. “It may be in my best interests anyway. You’re incredibly annoying when you’re bored.”

“ _I’m_ incredibly—you’re the one who sits staring at nothing for hours!” said John, a little indignantly, though still smiling. It was ridiculous, he thought, how much better he felt after a ten minute conversation with the man.

He had no way of knowing Sherlock felt exactly the same, about him. A fact which Sherlock found fascinating, and concerning. John was proving to be unexpectedly illuminating in a world where nearly everyone in it was dull and lackluster.

“And you watch internet videos of baby animals playing,” said Sherlock. “Who’s the annoying one?”

“You,” said John firmly, laughing. “It’s definitely you—“

There was a loud pounding on the front door downstairs. John jumped and Sherlock flinched, but they could hear Mrs. Hudson’s call of “I’m coming! Just a moment…” and both relaxed a fraction as they heard the door open and close calmly.

“Too late in the day for a client,” mused Sherlock quietly, and John looked at him. “Also the wrong style of knock. Not urgent enough. This was more insistent. Authoritative. Familiar.”

“You can get that from a knock on the door?” demanded John, more impressed than disbelieving.

But Sherlock was not listening to John, but was instead listening to the faint sounds from downstairs. Not one of Mrs. Hudson’s friends, not a client…

Footsteps on the stairs interrupted his thoughts.

The realization dawned on him as he instantly recognized the tread, the weight, and the decided air of a man on a mission.

Sherlock sprang to his feet in a flurry of disentangling limbs, and John jumped again, taken aback, and was even more taken aback when Sherlock flapped his arms frantically and hissed, “Go, go, get up, hide! _Hide_ , you idiot, _hide_!”

_“Hide_?!” asked John, his voice instinctively dropping to a whisper as he scrambled to get to his feet.

Sherlock dithered, hands waving in midair in an effort to stop himself from seizing John and throwing him in the direction of the stairs (which would solve the issue of the dead man now living in his flat, but replace it with the much more difficult issue of the dead man lying dead in his flat). “Upstairs, hide, yes, go—don’t come out until I tell you—lock doors. _Go_ , John, _move_ —“

It was not especially difficult for John to grasp the urgency of the situation. By now, he too had heard the footsteps coming up the stairs, and while he did not possess Sherlock’s mind, he was in possession of enough intellect to put two and two together, to understand that the steps on the stairs could only bode ill for the two of them.

Now standing, John hurried around his chair—dodging Sherlock, careful not to bump into him as they both flew about the flat in a full-blown panic—and made for the stairs up to his bedroom.

The footsteps had reached the top of the stairs and were on the landing outside the door. But where Sherlock had anticipated a knock, there was instead the faint jingling sound of a set of keys (presumably borrowed from Mrs. Hudson upon entrance, so determined was their visitor) being raised and maneuvered into a lock. With a feeling of dread settling into the pit of his stomach like a pool of cold water, Sherlock knew it was already over.

Sherlock jumped over the coffee table and landed in the middle of the hall, attempting to block any view of the stairs from the door, just as the door flew open.

Sherlock and John both froze, John half-concealed in shadow on the stairs to his bedroom, Sherlock with his arms partially raised on either side, in the semblance of a rather overzealous shrug.

Inspector Lestrade burst into the room, and his eyes instantly found Sherlock.

“Where is he?” he demanded, without preamble, his tone promising swift retribution, whether or not the law addressed any situation like this. “Do you think I’m stupid?! Don’t mess with me, Sherlock. I’m done. _Where_.”

 “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sherlock, hopelessly, willing Lestrade to turn away, to inspect Sherlock’s bedroom, or even the kitchen—anything that would enable John to flee up those final stairs, as only luck could save them now.

It was a shame that the Detective didn’t believe in luck.

Lestrade focused on Sherlock, then the room at large, and then his eyes found the doctor perched on the far stairs, his face just barely visible over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Lestrade stared.

John stared.

Sherlock stared.

The tension in the room was such that if someone had struck a match at that moment, the entire building might have exploded.

Lestrade gaped.

John stared.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

“John, Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” he said, even as the police officer was beginning to turn red with barely suppressed fury. “Lestrade… John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND HE LOOKS AT ME  
> AND I LOOK AT HIM  
> AND HE LOOKS AT ME  
> AND I LOOK AT HIIIIM  
> AND HE LOOKS AT ME  
> AND I LOOK AT HIM  
> AND HE LOOKS AT ME  
> AND I LOOK AT HIMMMMMMM
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=klmvEfIneiY 
> 
> Things are about to get real ugly real fast.
> 
> ~
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I apologize for being a day late (blame a weekend of truly miserable camping, catching a cold, and my birthday being tomorrow. Uh… so, chapter update = happy birthday to me, I don't suck too much at updates), but I hope I've made amends with the promise of an impending shouting match.
> 
> Now, I know the last two chapters have been a little slow, so let me just explain myself really quick. I wanted last chapter to offer both Sherlock and John a little bit of downtime and a little bit of time to better get to know one another, which I mentioned very briefly in the endnotes from Chapter 9. This chapter, my motive was a little different. I wanted to have one chapter that makes a couple aspects of their relationship very clear, because I feel they're going to be really important going forward.  
> For one, John and Sherlock have found themselves as unlikely companions in this madcap adventure, but they're also still strangers. John knows very little about Sherlock and his habits, and Sherlock is 99% ignorant of how to behave around other people. Their relationship is still in its fledgling stages. There's a lot of room for them to grow. They're not the famous duo yet, but rather, two acquaintances who've found themselves thrown together in the name of justice and crime solving.  
> But even more importantly, I wanted to stress the importance of communication in their relationship. They're both stuck when they close one another off. John is just confused and directionless, and Sherlock is moody and sullen. But even a few moments of proper discussion both reassures John and gets Sherlock's mind rolling again on the deductive highway to justice (… yeah I really did just type that okay uh).  
> In short, this chapter is meant to establish that, while they are still largely strangers, there's a definite link here. There's a codependence. There's a companionship. Even if they don't know it yet.  
> There's a reason for my madness.  
> THAT BEING SAID.  
> I solemnly swear, the pace of this story is about to rev up several notches.  
>  If you were beginning to lose hope of ever seeing a return to action and madness and chaos and deduction and guns and magic and skdjnsjdgbsgj, bear with me just a little longer.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me so far! Thank you for your patience and feedback and support, it means so so much!


	11. Newton's Third Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the very late update.  
> More apologies in end notes. For now -- 
> 
> AHH SHIT IT'S LESTRADE

The silence that stretched on seemed infinite, so thin that no one dared to speak for fear that the force of the air escaping their lungs would shatter the very atmosphere around them.

It took a full thirty-one seconds for anyone to dare to speak.

Perhaps, Sherlock would try to rationalize, it was John’s military training that gave him the amount of daring necessary to talk to Lestrade. Maybe it was his respect for people of rank and authority and in the business of serving as the defenders of the general public. Maybe he’d suffered hitherto undiscovered brain damage.

All three hypotheses seemed perfectly reasonable when John finally opened his mouth and managed to utter a stunned, “Hello.”

The effect was almost immediate. Lestrade, at last, managed to tear his eyes away from John long enough to turn his gaze on Sherlock, smoldering with rage. “Oh, you _bastard_ ,” he snarled. “Do you think I’m stupid?!”

“Let’s discuss this outsi—“ Sherlock began.

Lestrade spoke over him, and pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock. “Do you have any idea—Sherlock, I could—if ‘magic’ was a viable reason, I could charge you with _murder_!”

“Hang on, Sherlock didn’t—“ said John in alarm, speaking for the first time, but Sherlock cut him off. The last thing he wanted was for John to be involved in this conversation. No, no, this was getting out of control.

“Lestrade, _shut up_ ,” snapped Sherlock. He could feel the airtight grasp he’d strived to maintain on it all unraveling. He needed to regain command of the situation, and the first step would be making Lestrade stop talking.

He’d kept John blissfully unaware of everything. After all, did he _need_ to know about the cabbie that had paid the price for Sherlock’s carelessness? He was alive again; that, he thought, should be that.

Lestrade stared at Sherlock, livid. “Oh no,” he said harshly. “You’re going to shut up. Do you have any idea of the position you’ve just put me in? It’s not like I can explain this all away. If anyone started to suspect something was wrong, it’s me they’d go for, Sherlock—I let you in on the sodding case!”

“I’m aware—“

“But more than that,” snapped Lestrade, who showed no intention of stopping. “More than that, I trust you, Sherlock—I trust you with these cases, knowing full well what could go wrong if anything happens.”

“Don’t make this into some sort of stupid petty trust discussion; you know there’s no point.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “You don’t trust me. Clearly, or you’d let me in on cases like the serial suicides, or actually permit me to make my own decisions instead of trying to keep me on a leash—“

Lestrade held up a hand for Sherlock to be quiet. “Sorry, but you don’t get to make this about me keeping secrets from you, when you kept _this_ —“ The policeman gestured sharply in John’s direction, and John shifted uneasily “—a secret from me.”

“Because I knew you’d overreact!” said Sherlock.

“I’d _overreact_?!”

“Yes.”

“I’m _overreacting_?!”

“More and more every passing second.” Sherlock’s tact seemed to have abandoned him in lieu of some less mortifying venue. Perhaps horror was making him bold.

“Do you know him?” barked Lestrade. He pointed at John. “Did you know him before you brought him back?”

“I’d never met him, heard of him, or seen him until the morgue two days ago,” said Sherlock coldly.

Lestrade looked skeptically from Sherlock to John, but John jerked his head once in mute support of Sherlock’s assertion, and Lestrade moved on.

“So you lied about all of this to hide a complete stranger?” he said.

“Pretty much,” said Sherlock.

“And you didn’t think I would find out?”

“I had counted on you being a bit slower than this,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade’s face was so red that it bordered on purple. “How many people have you kept alive more than a minute?!” demanded Lestrade, his voice rising an octave.

“John is the only one,” said Sherlock, temper flaring instinctively (and defensively).

The policeman rolled his eyes. “Right, like I’m going to believe that,” he snapped.

“This isn’t a systematic occurrence,” said Sherlock, and he matched Lestrade’s venomous tone. “This is a singularity. It’s not like I’ve been habitually lying to you—this is the first time it’s happened. And frankly, it seemed best not to tell you because I knew you’d be too stupid to understand and too ridiculous to listen.”

Lestrade was puffing up with indignant rage so quickly that if someone were to poke him with a needle, he might have deflated and flown about the room like a punctured balloon. “Because you _killed_ somebody!” he half-shouted. “You killed somebody when you didn’t let _him_ stay dead!”

“I didn’t kill anyone!” objected Sherlock, as his blood ran cold. “’Killing’ implies an inherent degree of planning and intent. I had no intention of killing anyone—and certainly no desire to kill anyone—and can assure you that in no way was anything premeditated. I planned _nothing_. I have no control over it. I don’t have any control over who dies; it’s a random proximity thing.”

“ _I_ was in the proximity!” fumed Lestrade.

“… What do you mean, someone’s dead because of me?” interrupted John’s voice, so quiet and void of the outrage in Sherlock and Lestrade’s voices that both Detective and Inspector stopped dead.

Sherlock’s heart even had the decency to stop beating just in order to make sure Sherlock could hear the question with perfect clarity.

John was no longer looking at Lestrade, and his expression was no longer one of confusion or indignation.

His eyes were fixed on Sherlock, his eyes wide and his face pale.

Lestrade pressed his palms against his eyes. “You didn’t _tell him_?”

Sherlock would have given just about anything for there to be a spontaneous (and entirely impossible) catastrophic earthquake in the heart of London that was strong enough and violent enough to split the house in half and allow him to escape into the night. But the laws governing geology were just as harsh and unyielding as those governing Sherlock’s Gift.

“Why would I tell him that?” he said, choosing to look at Lestrade, because looking at John was inducing this unfamiliar and detestable pain in the region of his aorta. “Why would I tell anyone? For the same reasons I didn’t tell you, it seems to me that it is unwise to tell anyone about the particulars of my Gift. It’s a thousand times better if I am the only one who knows the full extent of my actions. Then I needn’t constantly be pushed around and reminded of the risks. Alone I retain my autonomy. Alone means I’m responsible, Lestrade. Alone protects me. And it seems rather beneficial for the rest of you.”

The fight seemed to go out of Lestrade’s stance. He let out a long, heavy sigh. “I—Jesus, all right. Can we at least discuss this? I mean, I think you and I – and John too, I guess – we need to figure out a course of action.”

This was met with silence, as Sherlock kept quiet in order to give John the chance to join in asserting the need for answers. But John’s anticipated response never came.

Sherlock and Lestrade both looked around in unison, and found the stairs empty.

The front door downstairs slammed.

“… Did?” asked Lestrade, but Sherlock was already across the room and at the window, looking down the street.

Sure enough, a small figure, his hands deep in his pockets, was already walking off down Baker Street, the gathering dark swallowing him up.

“It would appear John has gone out,” said Sherlock. He sounded far more nonplussed than he felt.

Sherlock whirled about and turned on Lestrade. “Why did you have to come marching in here like an absolute moron?! You could have dealt with _me_ , Lestrade—you didn’t need to barge in and handle this with all the indelicacy you seem to so readily detest in me!”

Lestrade, for what it was worth, did look somewhat shamefaced in light of John’s departure. But not too much so. “Look, what was I supposed to do? I’ve hardly been able to get a hold of you, and it’s not something I can just haul you in to the Yard to discuss. You and I know how big of a deal this is, and I thought he knew, too!”

Sherlock crossed the room again, glaring down at the policeman with a blazing intensity. “No. You know what _is_ a big deal? The terrorist threat bearing down on London that John might— _might_ —just be able to help me uncover if you’d only _try_ to think of something a little more important than your flawless arrest record that _I_ have enabled you to achieve. Or the blatant lack of trust on your side of our business arrangement. _Those_ are big deals.”

“Trust,” said Lestrade flatly, “is a two-way street, Sherlock.”

Sherlock straightened and said nothing.

He did not especially need to.

“Speaking of streets,” said Lestrade, suddenly craning his neck so as to glance at the window across the room. “You need to get after him. Officially, he’s still dead, and if—“

“No one is going to recognize him,” interrupted Sherlock.

“Look, just go after him,” insisted Lestrade.

Sherlock paused for a moment longer, before he grabbed his coat off the back of the door and tugged it on. “Are you coming?” demanded Sherlock.

“I’m getting the impression I might want to let you talk to him first,” said Lestrade, hanging back. “I’d like to talk to him. But maybe after you’ve actually explained the circumstances to the poor bastard.”

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets, a little more aggressively than was strictly necessary, and did not meet Lestrade’s gaze.

“He should not have found out like this,” he said crisply.

“But he should have already known,” countered Lestrade.

Rather than waste time arguing, Sherlock swept out the door and slammed it behind him.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock hurried down the stairs and out onto the street, ignoring Mrs. Hudson’s curious call of “Sherlock, what’s all the excitement?”. He took a few seconds, looking right and scanning ahead for John.

Someone was rounding the corner up ahead, and it was not difficult for Sherlock to recognize who it was, and run after.

Sherlock was twenty feet behind John, after a block and a half of running, before John spoke.

“Shove off,” snapped John, not even bothering to turn around at the sound of footsteps. “No one’s going to recognize me, so I really don’t see the harm in me going out for some air, and I bloody well am not going back to Baker Street until I sodding feel like it. So. Shove. Off.”

“Look, you needn’t worry too much about Lestrade,” said Sherlock, slowing as he drew even with John, and then turning so he could walk backwards to observe John’s facial expression. “He’s—“

“Lestrade?” interrupted John with contemptuous surprise. “You think I’m pissed off because of the police officer bringing me up to speed on what you’ve been hiding from me for the last few days?”

Sherlock held up his hands and gestured sharply, making John jerk back a step to stop from bumping into Sherlock and accidentally touch him. “Permit me to explain.”

“Explain _what_ , exactly?” demanded John, making to step around Sherlock and keep going. Sherlock shifted to block him again. “How you killed someone by not sending me back? Because I’ve figured that much out on my own now, no thanks to you.”

 Sherlock swallowed. “I didn’t kill—I didn’t actively kill. I’m not a killer.”

“But someone _is_ dead,” said John flatly. “Someone who shouldn’t be.”

“But I didn’t kill them.”

“You can phrase it however you want, Sherlock. It doesn’t change the fact that, like it or not, you killed someone for me.”

“No. sort of. Not really. It’s a random proximity thing, there was no choice or decision-making or any similar thought process whatsoever. It just happened.”

Sherlock did not like this. He did not like this.

This was why he never told anyone the Rules governing his Gift. Because it was impossible for people to understand, and it was impossible to explain or justify any action that was so outside the realm of acceptable possibility.

The line dividing life and death, to the entirety of the world, seemed a rigid separation of black and white, with no margins in between. Wholly unlike the amalgamation of a thousand different hues of grey that Sherlock saw.

“It just happened,” he said again. “It does that.”

John swallowed and looked away. “But you knew it would happen.”

“I was incapacitated with not being able to think,” said Sherlock.

John let out a small, hollow laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“At the second I should have touched you again to make you return to being dead, I could not think. I did not think. One second earlier and I would have done it, but at that precise second, my control over my train of thought was suspended long enough to let the minute pass. If I had touched you again before sixty seconds had elapsed, then there wouldn’t be a problem. But I didn’t. And after the minute had passed, what was the point? That would be wasting the chance to gather information from you. About you. For you.” Sherlock was at a loss. He did not know how to comfort people. And there was no precedent for a situation like this one. There was (though Sherlock thought this was a horrendous oversight on the universe’s part) no established guide on how to reassure the living that they ought to be living. No matter how incredible the circumstances.

“So you spaced it and now someone is dead because I’m still here?” said John.

“I might not phrase it that way, but yes,” said Sherlock. “Every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction. Including restoring life, it seems.”

John clenched and unclenched his fist. “But you have a time limit? It has to be within sixty seconds? If you touched me now, would they come back?”

“No,” said Sherlock bluntly, shaking his head. “No. They would not.”

John nodded, as if he’d expected this answer. “So I’ve been just casually living out a life that isn’t really mine.”

“It _is_ yours,” objected Sherlock sharply, enough for John to make eye contact, though only for a moment.

John plucked at the hem of his sling with one hand in an agitated gesture. “I don’t know if I even believe you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, more out of habit and an unfamiliar anxiety than actual frustration. “Your life is still yours. It is not someone else’s. It does not belong to them. If it came with a deed of ownership, it would still bear your name.”

“Don’t try to be all metaphorical with me,” snapped John.

“Look.” Sherlock finally lowered his hands. “I should have told you. But I knew you would be upset by it. You are here for a reason. And this kind of knowledge is needless distress.”

“ _Needless_ ,” repeated John with some incredulity.

“I was not going to have you take responsibility for my actions,” said Sherlock, taking an unsteady breath. “I have not known you long, admittedly, but I don’t think it takes much effort to deduce that you’re – you know, the sort of person who would. Value that life. Take responsibility for it. Even when the decision—or lack thereof—was not yours.”

John looked down, his face still etched with a deep frown.

“I kept you alive because I need your help,” said Sherlock. He did not, in truth, know that this was really true. But something, somewhere buried deep, was certain that this was the truth. The unmitigated truth. Or at least enough of a truth to mean something. So he clung to it and dredged what he could up from the depths of the muddy pit of emotion he had to dig this from. “More or less. Saving thousands of lives. Maybe millions.”

“Don’t patronize me,” said John quietly.

“I’m not expecting you to understand this, as it is my Gift. My abilities that have facilitated this.” Sherlock straightened. “Nor do I expect you to understand my reasoning. Namely because I am not sure I understand it. At all. But it is my responsibility. And not something you need to carry on your shoulders.”

“But it’s…” John gestured hopelessly and fell silent.

“Any adjective I imagine you might want to use is one, I can assure you, that I have wanted to use similarly myself,” said Sherlock.

“I just – wish…” said John, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. “I wish there’d been a choice.”

“There was,” said Sherlock, and somehow the apathetic tone of his voice seemed at odds with his statement, though he could not, himself, figure out how. “There was a choice. And I chose you.”

“But you have to understand that that _doesn’t make sense_ ,” said John sharply. “That choice makes no sense, and all you’ve droned on about for days is how everything you do is driven by logic. Deliberate choice, not random proximity and chance bullshit.”

Sherlock shifted, burying his hands in the pockets of his coat. “Everything we do is a choice. Tea or coffee, Tube or cab, fifty-nine seconds or sixty seconds. We make choices, and live with consequences. If someone gets hurt along the way, we must learn to cope with the responsibility or ask for forgiveness. It's the best anyone can do.” He cleared his throat. “Though I did not realize it at the time, that was a choice. A largely unconscious one, but an active choice in some part of my mind. The dismissal of the passage of time is a choice in some way or another. And I am certain there is a reason for it. I am an impulsive individual, but I am not a stupid one. There is cause for everything that I do.”

John said nothing.

“I made a choice and I'd do it again. Without thinking, I let the minute pass and as a result I unwittingly let that cab driver die. But it had to happen in order to keep you alive. There was a reason for it. It’s not a lottery system of who gets to stay and who has to go; there’s a reason. I acted on it. Whatever it is. I don’t know for sure yet, but there it is.” Sherlock made himself look John in the eye. “If placed in a fixed infinite loop, I wager I would make the same choice every time. That's how confident I am that it was the right choice. I apologize if that makes me a bad person in your opinion, but I am not sorry that you're alive.”

John opened his mouth, and closed it.

For his part, Sherlock felt at rather a loss.

They stood there, Detective and Doctor, in silence for a few minutes, the steady hum of distant cars and the wind over the distant Thames the only sound filling the void.

Finally, John broke the silence.

“Can I _actually_ do something?” he asked. “To help with this case. Is me being alive actually going to help?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock shortly, and he did not elaborate further than that.

John nodded. He could not see how, and he had a feeling Sherlock didn’t know either. But it would have to do for now. It would have to be good enough.

It was enough of a reason to stay.

He just hoped it was enough of a reason to _be_. When he should not be.

John cleared his throat, and finally nodded, curtly.

“I want to talk to the cab driver,” he said. “You should talk to him too.”

Sherlock blinked. Then he blinked again. And once more, in a state of utter confusion. “What?”

“I want to talk to the cabbie,” repeated John. “And I think you should too.”

Sherlock was content, in a way, that he had just had to rationalize his thought process to John regarding keeping him alive past the critical sixty second time limit. He was anticipating having to do the same for Lestrade. It had been a healthy experience. An essential one. In a scientific setting, he would label it as establishing his biases and methodology. After all, rationalizing rational thoughts was rational.

Rationalizing those rational thoughts to the cabbie now dead in the morgue, however, was something he did not want to do.

“… Why would I do that,” he managed.

John’s expression was determined, resolute. “So you can apologize and I can say thank you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Sherlock slowly, even as every corner of his mind screamed horrified protests at doing any such thing.

John shrugged his good shoulder. “We’re still going to do it.” He sighed. “I’ll stay, and keep helping. If we talk to the cabbie.”

The refusal was halfway formulated in Sherlock’s larynx and a third of the way out of his mouth when he forced himself to stop.

It had been his choice to let the cabbie die.

Perhaps not every choice could be his.

Alone, thought Sherlock, was protecting. Alone meant safety. Reason. Logic. Caution. Alone meant intelligent decisions and objective deduction and staying far away from morgues where a cabbie was lying dead. Where the first human Sherlock had accidentally made die was now lying.

But if he was alone, he would not have to make this decision at all.

He looked down at John, and he sighed.

“All right,” he said, the weight of dread dragging him down like his scarf had been transfigured from wool to lead. “We talk to the cabbie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John: i hate you  
> Sherlock: [extremely verbose apology]  
> John: piss off  
> Sherlock: *puppy eyes*  
> John: fuck you and your incredibly effective apologies
> 
> meanwhile, Lestrade  
> ALL THE FUN OF A DRUGS BUST, NONE OF THE ANDERSON TO CLEAN UP AFTER
> 
> ~
> 
> Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
> 
> ~
> 
> Once more, dear readers, a thousand apologies for the huge delay in getting this chapter completed and posted.  
> My grandmother passed away after a fifteen year battle with Alzheimer's a couple weeks ago, and it was a bit of a struggle getting through all that, and then getting through the mountain of missed work that accumulated while I was away.
> 
> But I'm well, and caught up, and now completely and utterly in the thralls of the impending feelsy developments of the next few chapters (BWAHAHAHAHAA).  
> I really appreciate all of your patience and understanding, and I hope you're all still willing to bear with me as I churn this story out as best I can!
> 
> Trying to speed things up a little in this chapter. Bit more decision-making than usual. The pace of this story is finally beginning to pick up a little.
> 
> To make up for the lack of updates the last few weeks, I promise to make next week's update *gasp* at least close to on time!  
> Thanks so much for your feedback, comments, kudos, support, and patience most of all! <3 You're all incredible -- thanks so much for coming along for the ride with me ~! :D


	12. The Name of the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for past delays and likely future ones as finals approach, this update is (accidentally, I admit) the longest chapter to date by quite a bit. Whoops.  
> Enjoy!

John hardly spoke the rest of the walk home, save to assure Sherlock he was willing to return to 221B with a flat “Where else could I possibly go?”

Sherlock knew John had not forgiven him from keeping the full circumstances of his return to life a secret. But he doubted any such forgiveness would be given until they spoke with the cab driver who had died when John’s minute was up, and even then, Sherlock wasn’t inclined to think that would be a particularly healing experience. He preferred the cynical attitude that now John and Lestrade—the only people who knew about Sherlock’s ability to bring the dead back to life with a single touch—were now conspiratorially against his use of his Gift.

It was, as it had always been, Sherlock alone against the world.

Lestrade was waiting for Sherlock and John in the flat when they returned. Sherlock prepared to hustle John past Lestrade and out of sight, but instead the policeman stopped John in the living room, and extended a hand.

“Look, I’m…” he said, looking awkward. “I’m sorry about the whole, uh, you know.”

John shook Lestrade’s hand. “Not your fault,” said John. “You had no way to know I was in the dark.”

“Still – it was tactless of me,” mumbled Lestrade.

He and John dropped their hands, wearing matching uncomfortable expressions.

Sherlock suspected John was still upset and Lestrade was coming to terms with the fact that he’d just shaken hands with someone who’s been dead at one point in time.

He was surprised Lestrade didn’t pull a pastry out of a coat pocket, as only baked goods could possibly soothe Lestrade’s nerves.

The silence stretched, and it was finally John who ended it. He shifted, rubbing his shoulder absently, and said, “So, you and Sherlock can work out the details, but I want to go speak to the cabbie. I’d appreciate it if you could help with that.”

Lestrade’s mouth was hanging open, but this didn’t seem to deter John.

“I know it’s a little difficult for me to be there,” he went on. “It sounds stupidly like returning to the scene of a crime. But considering I wouldn’t be here if not for that cab driver, I ought to do something to pay my respects. And Sherlock should as well. I can hardly show up to a funeral, but this is something I could do. It couldn’t hurt to take less than a minute to talk to him. Even if that doesn’t make amends at all.”

Lestrade looked more and more uncomfortable with the idea the longer John spoke, which John could easily see.

“I’m trying to be reasonable,” said John. “But I’ve already got enough to deal with right now. I don’t need to come to terms with being responsible for murder too. Even accidentally.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I _was_ a soldier. A doctor, and a soldier. I killed people in Afghanistan. But this isn’t Afghanistan.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but John didn’t particularly need him to. He turned back to Lestrade, who nodded reluctantly.

“Thanks,” said John. He held out his hand again, and Lestrade shook it briefly. Then, he straightened.

“I’m – going to head to bed, if that’s all right,” he said. “You both can talk things over.”

Without another word, John retreated up the stairs to his room, needing the distance and the door to get away from everything. If only it wasn’t possible to.

“… I feel violated,” said Sherlock, the second he heard the click of John’s door as it closed after him.

“Why? Because this is your fault?” asked Lestrade dryly.

Sherlock glared at him. “Why must you assign blame for everything? No. It’s because you stormed in here and told him all of this when I wasn’t ready. That was my information.”

“That was _our_ information,” corrected Lestrade. “You just didn’t figure that out.”

“Regardless—“ started Sherlock, but Lestrade interrupted.

“Look,” he said. “I’m cleaning up your mess here. I’m not going to argue with you.” Lestrade glanced at the stairs. “Does he seriously want me to sneak him back to the morgue so he can talk to the cab driver? Because that’s ridiculous.”

“It’s human,” said Sherlock, neither approving nor disapproving. “And yes, he does. And – so do I. Against my better judgment.”

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, wearing a bewildered expression. “You _agree_?”

“Oh, don’t turn this into a big deal,” snapped Sherlock. “Just figure it out. John’s not going to let this go. I have to do something to broker peace, or it’s only going to be more tedious from here on out.”

Lestrade sighed and shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Sounds to me like you’re making some sort of effort to be considerate,” he said. “Which is weird,” he added, taking a couple steps toward the door to leave.

“I’m not considerate,” retorted Sherlock. “Twenty minutes ago you were complaining I’d almost gotten you killed.”

“True,” said Lestrade, scowling.

“So shut up already.”

Lestrade held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever. Just try not to cause any more disasters in the next couple days, and I’ll see what I can do about getting you two into the morgue to – say sorry, or whatever the hell it is you’re going to do. We can discuss this further over text and figure out what to do about the cabbie and what to do about your new roommate here.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, with no enthusiasm.

Lestrade waved, and showed himself out.

The moment he was gone, Sherlock sank onto the sofa, and didn’t move until the sun had risen the next morning.

 

~o~O~o~

 

It was a few days before Lestrade arranged for their trip to the morgue.

Sherlock was perched in his usual chair by the window, long legs crossed and phone resting on his knees as he idly went through phone messages and a few sparse (and dull) case requests on his website while John puttered about in the kitchen making himself what had to be his twentieth cup of tea that day.

Sherlock surreptitiously watched John stirring cream into his cup over his phone.

John’s behavior over the last two days was seemingly normal, if bland.

The only real evidence that he was angry was in how little he spoke. And the fact that he had stopped asking if Sherlock wanted tea when he made it.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed just as John finished making his mug of tea. He looked at the text.

 

_Any chance you don’t want to talk to_

_the cabbie anymore? That’d make my_

_day. –GL_

_No such luck. Have you arranged a_

_time? -SH_

_Tomorrow at 5. Molly Hooper is away_

_visiting family and I’ve cleared everyone_

_else out. Police business. –GL_

_So no one had better recognize John or_

_it’s my neck on the line. –GL_

 

_You’ve made your point. We’ll be there. –SH_

 

Sherlock glanced up as John made to go back upstairs with his cup of tea. “Lestrade just texted.”

“Did he?” said John, pausing with one foot on the stairs. Both of his hands wrapped around his mug. He’d decided to remove his sling earlier that morning. “And?”

“Tomorrow evening. All right?”

“Good, yeah, fine,” said John with a nod. He paused, and cleared his throat. “Good,” he said again, before plodding his way upstairs. Sherlock heard the bedroom door close behind him with a gentle click.

Sherlock slouched in his seat. Honestly, as if this all wasn’t difficult enough… But there was no getting out of this now.

He had to make some effort to be understanding of John’s coping mechanisms. As ludicrous and impractical and unpleasant as they might be. He owed it to John, somehow. It was not an equivalent exchange, to ask for the man’s cooperation in exchange for no closure. After all, John was effectively closing the book on his past life. It hadn’t even been a week, and no doubt John had not yet found a way to resolve many of the outstanding variables, but Sherlock doubted there were many people who would willingly spend any portion of a second, limitless life stuck with him.

This based on the available data from the people he normally interacted with. Lestrade might go mad, Mrs. Hudson would surely get very bored and very annoying very quickly, his family was not an option, and people like Lestrade’s lackey Anderson—Sherlock couldn’t decide who would kill who first.

Still. That didn’t do much to make Sherlock feel any less guilty.

The sensation was relatively new to him, in light of this newfound and very personal responsibility for another person’s life, and he was already quite certain that he hated it.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Lestrade arrived the next day in his own car—having apparently taken the afternoon off—in order to get Sherlock and John to the morgue. Mrs. Hudson waved them off (“Oh, a night out? How nice. You know, Mrs. Turner and I often like to…”), and they left for the morgue, with Lestrade and Sherlock in front, and John riding in the back to make sure he and Sherlock did not accidentally touch.

Offering the ride seemed overly kind, on Lestrade’s part, but Sherlock knew it was to minimize their interactions with other people who might later identify them, so paranoid was the policeman about this visit.

As it was, the moment they arrived at the morgue, Lestrade rushed them inside, hustling a painfully quiet John along until at last they reached the morgue.

Once inside, Lestrade unlocked one of the drawers, carefully removing the small box of items from the driver’s cab that had been removed from the scene. No one had gone through them, as of yet—after all, the family had said they didn’t want an autopsy, and there was no need for a criminal investigation, was there?—and so they had simply been collected in a box awaiting inspection.

John stood to one side, arms crossed over his chest in a defensive gesture.

Lestrade looked at John with some concern in his expression, but Sherlock found looking at John was too much of a challenge at present, and instead focused on the meager pile of belongings that had to have been the cabbies.

His clothes were old and worn, but meticulously kept, and all various shades of dark blues and greys. Dull, boring. On top of the clothes were a few other items. Keys, a wallet. Older person. Poor reflexes deteriorating in recent years. Likely health problems affecting motor skills. Definite arthritis. Probably something else. Modest means, considering the age of the wallet and the poor condition.

The only other belongings were a ripped photograph and two glass bottles. The photograph showed two children. Young. A boy and a girl. There was another person on the left, but the photo had been purposefully torn down the middle. Most likely the mother. Most likely estranged. But the relationship with the children had to be good, or he wouldn’t have the photo in his cab.

The bottles were more interesting. A single matching pill in each little bottle.

Lestrade coughed loudly, and Sherlock looked up.

“All set?” said Lestrade meaningfully, and Sherlock saw he’d already slid the cabbie’s body out.

Sherlock’s mouth was rather dry.

He thought he could probably be persuaded to kill for a cigarette.

John glanced at Sherlock.

“Name?” said Sherlock coolly.

“Jeff Hope,” said Lestrade, taking a few steps back and shoving his hands deep in his pockets. He normally left the room when Sherlock used his Gift, but obviously, he was not going anywhere this time. The dread in his body language made that much clear.

Sherlock nodded. He looked down at the cabbie. His belongings said as much as his face did. Older, ill, and not much of interest. The only reason they might take the full minute to speak with him was if John got wordy. Which, given that he and John had spent the last three days in near-total silence, was unlikely.

John seemed to know along what lines Sherlock was thinking. “Timer,” he said shortly. “Don’t be reckless.”

Sherlock stopped himself from rolling his eyes at the last second, and took out his phone, setting the timer to one minute.

He took a deep breath, and looked first at Hope, and then at Lestrade, and John.

“He might remember me,” he said. He had no idea why he felt compelled to say it. Perhaps as reason not to? Though it was not an persuasive reason at all.

“You’re only bringing him back for a minute,” said John, though—surprisingly—not unkindly. “It won’t matter much.”

“Just get this over with,” Lestrade contributed, taking yet another step back.

Sherlock took another deep breath, and readied himself. He kept his phone clasped tightly in one hand, and extended the other. 

He had done this many times before. This time was no different.

So why was it?

Sherlock shook his head as if doing so might remove the sentimental voice that had taken up residence there in the last few days, held out his hand, started the timer, and touched the cabbie’s arm with a single finger.

There was a spark of bright light at Sherlock’s touch.

Jeff Hope, the cab driver, opened his eyes, and took in his surroundings in one sweeping look. He caught sight of Sherlock and frowned. “Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock shortly, feeling mildly ill.

Hope raised his eyebrows. “… I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock again. “But I can speak to the dead.”

“Ah.” The driver whistled in admiration. “That’s new, ain’t it. Figures you’ve got some secret advantage. Explains a lot.”

Sherlock’s face was deadpan. He shifted, fingers drumming a fast tempo against his leg. He resisted the urge to argue or roll his eyes. It would just be wasting time, and the fact that he was here, speaking to the driver he’d accidentally killed, seemed like the quintessential lesson in the hazards of inattention to time management.

Sherlock glanced at John, in a mute signal that if John wanted to say – whatever it was he wanted to say – now was the time. There were only fifty-two seconds remaining in which to say it, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he could stand doing this for even that much time.

John caught Sherlock’s eye, and nodded once in understanding. Shoulders squared, he opened his mouth to speak.

But, unexpectedly, the cabbie interrupted.

“So you probably want to know how I did it,” said Hope, scrutinizing Sherlock with an unexpected sort of glee. “You wouldn’t be asking me if you’d already figured it out.”

John stopped, his mouth still open, and Sherlock felt his concentration and nerve rushing back to him in a rumbling of thought.

“I – I was actually here regarding your death. Which I caused. Accidentally on-purpose,” he said.

“Did you kill me?” said Hope, suddenly looking just as shocked as everyone else, and he sat up a little to get a better look at Sherlock. “I just assumed it was the aneurism.” 

Surely, Sherlock had misheard.

John and Lestrade both looked convinced that they must have imagined the last three seconds.

“… Aneurism?” they all repeated in unison.

“Yeah. Right here.” The cabbie tapped the top of his head. “No cure.”

An intracranial aneurism certainly wouldn’t be operable. Sherlock’s understanding of medical science only extended as far as practicality for the sake of cases dictated, but even he knew the chance of successfully removing such an aneurism was essentially nonexistent. It could be asymptomatic. It may or may not be in the cabbie’s records. Really, it could happen to anyone.

That being said, he had not anticipated this.

But Sherlock’s mind was already racing ahead, seizing onto Hope’s words and striving to make the most of what precious seconds were left of the minute. Deductions raced at inhuman speeds through the halls of his mind palace, new passages opening between rooms to connect hitherto separated information.

One sentence stood out.

“I want to know how you did what?” demanded Sherlock, all thoughts of issuing a proper apology or giving John the chance to speak to the cabbie lost in the thrill of the case. Although, fortunately, John seemed too preoccupied with the cabbie’s words to object.

The cabbie smirked. “Are you telling me the police still haven’t figured it out? Hell, I _was_ good.”

The pieces clicked into place.

The door connecting the troves of information in Sherlock’s mind unlocked, and opened, and the lights flickered triumphantly on.

Sherlock straightened, shutting his eyes for a single second in order to stop himself from outwardly displaying his sudden excitement.

“The serial suicides,” he said flatly.

John frowned in confusion, but Lestrade gaped.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said the policeman, even as Jeff Hope nodded, still smirking.

“Well done, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Too bad I died before I got to have a go against you.  You wouldn’t believe how pleased I was when I saw it was you who got in my cab.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “By which you mean I was nearly your next victim?”

“That’s right,” said the cabbie.

Sherlock didn’t bother to look at Lestrade. He didn’t need to.

“Jesus…” sighed Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored him.

He checked the timer.

Nineteen seconds.

“Tell me how you did it,” he snapped, and then immediately shook his head. “No, shut up.” He could learn that himself. “Tell me why you did it,” he demanded. “Now.”

Fifteen seconds. Fourteen seconds.

“Why not?” said Hope, painfully ignorant of the timer. “Kill a few strangers. Live a little before I die. And make some money for my kids. You see—“ The cabbie tapped the side of his nose knowingly, smiling at Sherlock with a self-satisfied air to his grin. “I had a sponsor.”

“A _what_?” said John.

Lestrade seemed to lost the strength to even look surprised and was looking between Hope and Sherlock with an expression that clearly said he couldn’t decide if he wanted to applaud or punch the Detective.

“Who would sponsor a serial killer?” said Sherlock.

… It couldn’t be—?

Hope laughed. “You’re not going to find him, Mr. Holmes. He’ll find you long before you can find him. He knows all about you and it’s just a matter of time.”

Sherlock checked the timer.

Nine seconds.

“Sherlock…” said John in warning, clearly thinking the same thing.

Lestrade fidgeted in apparent alarm. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go right down to the minute again—“

“A name,” said Sherlock, oblivious to everyone but the cabbie, staring at Hope. “Give me a name.”

“I’ll tell you. But it’s not gonna make a difference,” said the cabbie, shrugging. “The whole city’s going to hell. He’s taking it there.”

“Tell me,” said Sherlock with even more force.

“Sherlock!” said John loudly, wide eyes fixed on the timer.

“Oh _HELL no_ ,” said Lestrade, and he bolted from the room at full tilt, flying out the doors into the hallway.

Check the timer.

Three seconds.

“ _TELL ME_ ,” shouted Sherlock, clenching his fists to stop himself from touching the cabbie—whether to make him dead again or to shake the answer out of him, Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure.

“SHERLOCK,” yelled John.

“Moriarty,” said Hope, just as Sherlock extended a hand.

Sherlock touched Hope’s arm, and with a shock of darkness, Hope lay back limply.

Dead, once again. Forever.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock stood there for a long and silent moment. His thoughts were moving so fast that even breathing seemed too slow and tedious.

Across from him, John was breathing hard, as though he’d just run a mile, and he looked up from the once-again-deceased cabbie at Sherlock.

The door to the morgue opened, and Lestrade tentatively stuck his head in the door.

The click of the lock disrupted Sherlock from his thoughts just enough to glance in the direction of the door, and then at John, bouncing on his heels with a newfound rush of excitement bubbling up in his diaphragm. “That was uncharacteristically cowardly of you, Inspector,” he said smugly.

Lestrade looked too shaken to be indignant or embarrassed. “Piss off. I’m not going to be a victim of random proximity.” He glanced in Hope’s direction uncertainly, clearly to make sure the cabbie was no longer with them.

John exhaled heavily and rubbed the back of his neck, before he looked at Sherlock. “… So.”

Sherlock nodded. “So.”

Lestrade looked between them. He pointed, rather feebly, at Hope. “So—did he just…?”

“Did he just confess to being the serial suicides killer, and therefore the man responsible for the murders of four people that we know of—and very nearly five if not for the fact that my keeping John Watson alive prevented an attempt on my life? Yes, yes, he did.” Sherlock tried not to sound smug.

Lestrade seemed to wilt.

John looked between them. “He really was a serial killer?”

“Apparently,” said Sherlock. He _was_ trying not to smirk, but he wasn’t trying very hard. “A rather gifted one, if I might add. So much so that Lestrade here and his entire squad of bumbling morons were convinced the deaths were suicides.” He nodded to Lestrade. “I told you they were serial suicides. Complete with a serial killer facilitating them. There are other geniuses in the world besides me. It would seem Jeff Hope was among them. And all he needed to turn his considerable mental abilities to crime was a little motivation.”

“But—” started John.

“But how does one make murder look like suicide? It’s obvious.” Sherlock pointed at the modest pile of belongings near Hope. “You might want to take notes, Lestrade, seeing as I am about to do months of thinking for you in the span of the next three minutes. Note the items from his cab. His clothing, a photograph, and two glass bottles containing pills. Old clothes, meticulously kept and boring. A family photograph is nothing unusual. An older individual carrying pills is hardly abnormal, nor is the choice in container that odd. The elderly have a habit of repackaging anything from food to condiments to medicines. In short, nothing even remotely interesting, at first glance. But—“

“But actually interesting?” ventured John, getting caught up and swept away by Sherlock’s excitement.

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “The answer to how and why Jeff Hope successfully murdered four people and disguised them as suicides lies with those items and his own admittedly brief confession.”

“Why confess at all?” asked John.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. “Why not? He’s dead. He’s beyond any repercussion. And he was a genius. Brilliant enough to evade the police completely. I love the brilliant ones—they're always so desperate to get caught. They crave appreciation. Applause. A moment in the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience.”

John just barely refrained from asking if that was also the reason why Sherlock was never straightforward with any of his explanations. “So then…?”

Sherlock strode forward and picked up on the glass bottles, examining the pill inside. “I would have this analyzed sooner rather than later, Lestrade. I think it likely you’ll find one bottle contains poison that matches the poison used by the four supposed suicide victims, and not some innocent heart medication typical of the elderly.”

“He force-fed them pills?” said John, with a hint of skepticism.

Sherlock snorted. “No, they took them willingly.” He picked up both bottles and held them up, examining them. Perfectly identical in every way. “I am confident our cabbie here made this a contest. Hope would pick up his victims and offer them a choice. He would drive them away somewhere secluded and present them with both bottles, and a chance to escape with their lives. They would choose a bottle, and always choose wrong. They would die by their own hand, because he made them choose.”

“Why the hell would he—?!”

“Give them a choice? I’m willing to bet he would take the other pill. Then it’s not just murder, but a battle of the minds. Didn’t you pay attention when he said he wished he’d had a chance to have a go against me? Clearly, it was a mental exercise. A challenge. After all, it’s boring, otherwise.”

“ _Boring_ ,” repeated Lestrade with a hollow laugh.

“Shame he died before I could try,” said Sherlock, almost to himself.

“Before you could—“ began John with an expression that was equal parts amused and horrified.

Sherlock sniffed. “So. A genius desperate enough to become a serial killer and smart enough to disguise the deaths.”

John held up a hand. “Okay. But—“

“But why kill people at all?” Sherlock examined the pill bottles for a moment longer, lingering on them, before he set them down. “I’ll guess the children in the photograph are his. And his motivation for making a little money on the side in the business of homicide. He did seem to suggest there is an unexpected profit to be made in serial killing.” He grinned. “A sponsor.”

“But—“ said John, for what had to be the tenth time in the space of a couple minutes, and once again Sherlock anticipated his question.

“That makes no sense? I know it doesn’t. It seems utterly unique. Who would sponsor a serial killer? It requires a special sort of person.” Sherlock was grinning now. It was like Christmas. “Someone who really does want to just watch the world burn.”

John glanced at Hope. “Moriarty. The word he said was Moriarty.”

“Moriarty?” repeated Lestrade. “He gave a name?”

“Moriarty,” said Sherlock.

Certainly a name, of a man or an empire. Moriarty, potentially a name of Irish roots tracing back to the name Ó Muircheartaigh, ‘descendant of Muircheartach’, and therefore the lineage of the Anglicized Moriarty. Likely composed of the Gaelic elements ‘muir’, meaning sea, and ‘ceardach’, meaning skilled. A name meaning ‘skilled navigator’.

An individual gifted at traversing dark and dangerous seas wrought with intrigue and threats submerged below the waves.

Sherlock was not one for getting ahead of himself, but how could he resist this?

“And?” said John. He could tell the name meant something more than just a stranger’s name would. “Do you—“

“Know who that is?” Sherlock grinned at John. “Do _you_?”

“Me?” John frowned in surprise. “No? I’ve never heard the name. That’s kind of why I’m asking you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s a shame. As I have a feeling they might be the person responsible for your murder.”

“What?!” exclaimed John, gaping at Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Don’t tell me you seriously believe it’s a coincidence that there’s a terrorist threat operating in London that is willing to deal in overseas assassinations and bodysnatching, _at the same time_ that there happens to be a sponsored serial killer loose in London creating enough panic over multiple supposed suicides to keep both the police and news media distracted for who knows how long? I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“You think they’re related,” said John, his tone awed.

“I think they’re _correlated_ ,” corrected Sherlock. “I think they are intentionally timed. It’s a masterstroke. Even I almost fell for it. I nearly passed on your case in favor of the serial suicides. It seemed more relevant on the surface. More engaging. Who would focus on the seemingly ordinary death of a soldier when there were rumors of mass suicides in London? No offense,” he added.

“None taken,” said John. “But surely at least the government would focus on the terrorist?”

“Yes, but they wouldn’t publicize it,” said Sherlock. “Risk mass hysteria at the threat from without and within? I don’t think so. And with attention on the suicides, the police would have to focus there. Just keeping people calm would cost time and resources.”

“So—so the killer cabbie was a distraction?” said John, gradually becoming as excited as Sherlock. “To distract people from the real threat?”

“Exactly,” said Sherlock.

“And now you think we have the terrorist’s name?” said John.

“What’s the link between you and the cabbie? It’s not just your life and his death. ‘Tell them it was M—‘. I’m willing to bet the informant was beginning to say ‘tell them it was Moriarty’.” This was the name of the game. Sherlock was certain of it.

“And what does Moriarty mean?”

“Absolutely no idea,” said Sherlock. He smiled. Really smiled. “But give me a bit, I’ve only been on the case for ten minutes.”

John laughed. “Okay. God, that was – that was brilliant.”

“Was it?” said Sherlock, quirking an eyebrow. Though he knew it was.

“No shit it was brilliant.” John sighed wearily.

“Must make you feel a little less guilty about the cabbie being dead, too,” said Sherlock idly.

John snorted. “Yeah, well. Maybe a little bit.”

Sherlock feigned annoyance. “Only a little? You come back to life and simultaneously take down a serial killer who’d already killed four people in order to aid the terrorist threat that killed you in the first place. And you only feel a _little_ better about it?”

“He wasn’t really a nice man, was he?” said John, grinning in spite of himself as the knot of guilt that had rested in the pit of his stomach for the last few days finally eased.

“Not particularly,” said Sherlock.

“And frankly, considering the evidence, a bloody awful cabbie,” added John.

Sherlock smiled. “I should have known, considering the route he took to take me to Bart’s.”

“Don’t make me laugh, I can’t keep laughing in a morgue,” said John, working hard to stop himself smiling again.

“You started it,” said Sherlock. He turned to look at Lestrade triumphantly. “Well? Anything to add?”

“… I swear to God working with you has aged me prematurely,” said Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock you seriously have to stop doing this to me, i can't handle the emotional roller coaster that is working with you  
> i can't  
> i can't do it  
> i'm probably grey because of you  
> at this rate, i'll be bald before this is over
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9o19CaOSuD8
> 
> Lestrade is quickly becoming the king of one-line snark in this story.
> 
> ~
> 
> I have been looking forward to writing this chapter for _months_.
> 
> Writing this chapter turned out to be even more challenging than I thought it would be, but every bit as exciting as I'd hoped. I've been beyond excited to hit this point, you have no idea. So I hope the chapter effectively ties up some loose ends (like who freaking died for John--and three cheers to everyone who saw this coming long ago XD) while introducing the real issues here…
> 
> Lestrade was so heavily inspired by Emerson Cod from Pushing Daisies in this entire chapter that I had to quote the "oh HELL no". It's his best known line. I had to do it.  
> The plot of this chapter is hugely drawing from Study in Pink. With a fairly significant twist, mind you, but still. But I promise, I'm doing this for a reason. And of course, things are going to get pretty crazy down the line… but we'll get there when we get there.
> 
> I do want to say one thing in the hope of keeping your interest: Moriarty may be entering the fold here, but he might not be _exactly_ as we know him.  
>  AND THAT'S ALL I'M GONNA SAY
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Your feedback means a ton, comments most of all! Thanks everyone! <3


	13. A Sense of Belonging

The rest of the day passed in a blur.

After a long and somewhat repetitive conversation with Lestrade, Sherlock managed to convince him of the authenticity of Hope’s confession.

“I just can’t believe it was a cab driver,” said Lestrade, for perhaps the tenth time in the last few minutes. “Much less _your_ cab driver. It’s just—“

“It’s not a coincidence,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “This should be very easy for you to understand. He was _hoping_ to kill me. I can imagine the other victims were getting a little boring. I imagine he went out of his way to pass by Baker Street or respond to calls in that area.”

“But _how_ are you going to explain all of this?” The policeman crossed his arms. “Because you can’t exactly say he told you so.”

“You’re going to explain it,” corrected Sherlock. “You solved it.”

“No, I didn’t,” said Lestrade.

“Of course you didn’t, but I can’t take credit,” said Sherlock. “Then I’d have to make statements and fill out paperwork. And anything that connects me to Jeff Hope here is just another way in which this Moriarty can realize I’m on to them.”

“But—“

“Why are you complaining?” demanded Sherlock. “The whole case just makes you look good. Another feather in your cap.”

Lestrade, determined to win at least one of the day’s arguments, complained yet again that he couldn’t possibly explain how he’d solved the serial suicides case, since using Hope’s testimony was impossible.

Sherlock replied by holding up one of the little pill bottles and waving it in front of Lestrade’s nose.

“I have _giftwrapped_ this case for you,” said Sherlock, equally smug and exasperated.

“Completely by accident,” replied Lestrade bitterly, snatching the bottle out of Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade pointedly ignored him.

Satisfied, Sherlock straightened. “Test the pills and test the victims. Undoubtedly you’ll find the toxins in their blood match what is in this pill. If that’s not sufficient, then I’ll acquire something additional. But I imagine this will be more than enough. After all, no one would ever think of checking if all of the victims had taken a cab before turning up dead. Not many would suspect a cabbie of murder. Not when the deaths were self-inflicted. Cab drivers occupy a special niche. They pass through crowds unseen. It requires an uncommonly clever mind to piece together that there existed for any length of time a sponsored, murderous cab driver who would take passengers to a secluded location and convince them through intimidation or coercion to risk suicide by poison.”

“Pretty twisted,” commented John with distaste.

“’Brilliant’ is a far better descriptor,” said Sherlock. “Though I suppose ‘twisted’ is not unreasonable.”

Lestrade closed Hope’s body bag and stowed the cabbie’s now forever-deceased body. “Look,” he said as he did so, “I’m going to be honest, I’ve had about as much as I can handle for one day, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to go take care of these serial suicides and you’re both going to go home and stop causing trouble.”

John nodded.

Sherlock mumbled something along the lines of “Killjoy.”

Lestrade ushered the two of them out of the morgue, and Sherlock and John quickly walked down the hall and out the nearest door onto the street.

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eyes. “You look significantly less upset, compared to this morning.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to properly apologize to Hope about the whole me-being alive, him-being-dead thing,” started John. “But it’s hard to be all that sorry when it turns out the man was a serial killer.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “I’m not sure I’d feel sorry at all.”

“Yeah, but you’re kind of a dick,” said John.

“I am not,” retorted Sherlock indignantly.

John grinned. “You really kind of are.”

Sherlock scowled for a moment as they walked away from the building, getting back to the main road. They both spent a few minutes flagging down a cab, and they clambered inside—Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that he felt significantly less discomfort taking a cab now—before starting off towards Baker Street. Neither man spoke much, Sherlock still wrapped up in the evening’s developments and John still processing his unexpected change in circumstances.

When they had reached 221B, however, and paid the fair and stepped inside, John broke the silence with the only word that had meant much of anything to Sherlock for the last half hour.

“So… Moriarty.”

Sherlock fell into his chair by the window and grinned excitedly. “Moriarty.”

John rubbed his shoulder absently—the stitches would need to be removed soon—and sighed. “I guess we’ve got a lead now.”

“So it would seem,” said Sherlock. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

“You know, it’s really weird when _you_ say something’s not much to go on,” said John, laughing. “I’m getting used to not having a clue, but _you_ not having a clue…”

“I have a clue,” said Sherlock defensively. “I have many clues. Just—insubstantial ones.”

John snorted. “Nice try.”

“I’ll know more before long,” said Sherlock firmly. “It’s much easier to look for something that has a name. I’m willing to bet that Hope’s lead is a solid one. He had no reason to lie. This Moriarty might have been sponsoring him, but I doubt Hope would have felt any particularly strong sense of loyalty. It was a matter of personal motivation. Likely no direct contact. Strictly business.”

“Still think serial killing as a business is insane,” said John.

“It’s brilliant,” said Sherlock. John gave him a reprimanding look, and Sherlock continued, “It is. It’s not much different from hiring a mercenary, but there’s something remarkable about thinking to do it with someone who has nothing to lose, no history, and the mental capacity to cause some proper chaos.”

“So that’s something,” said John.

“What is?”

“I mean, these Moriarty people or person or whatever must be intelligent, to think of this sort of distraction. And to be able to hide an entire terrorist underground in London.”

Sherlock laced his fingers delicately and nodded. “Exceedingly intelligent.”

“… Which you’re happy about,” John noted drily.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t think he needed to.

After a moment, John sat opposite Sherlock and leaned forward. “So let’s go through it again. What do we know?”

Sherlock smirked. Normally, he’d have ignored that kind of question, but for once, he was willing to break his rule about not repeating himself.

Sherlock and John talked late into the night, reiterating everything that the cab driver, Hope, had said and revealed—everything about the serial suicides, about his sponsorship, and most of all, about Moriarty—and everything that they knew about John’s death and events since. They knew only what had happened to John and the informant he’d been trying to save before he died, what John remembered, and what Hope had told them. Linking everything with so little information seemed pointless, but they tried, until John was just about cross-eyed from tiredness. Finally, they both retired for the night.

John dreamed about cabs driving bodies across the Dashti Margo.

Sherlock lay in bed, searching every word, every file, every memory in his mind palace for one whisper of Moriarty, until he finally gave up on sleep.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock was plucking strings on his violin when John walked down the stairs the next morning.

“I said, could you pass me my phone,” was Sherlock’s greeting, not so much as looking up from his seat in his chair. He sat with his legs folded underneath himself in the chair, and looked as if he’d been there for hours.

John stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking confused. “Sorry, when was this?”

“Maybe an hour ago.”

“I was in bed an hour ago.”

“Were you?”

“… Yes.”

“Oh.”

John sighed. “Where is it.”

“On the coffee table.” Sherlock plucked the A string and adjusted the tuning peg the tiniest fraction.

John looked down at the coffee table, then back up at Sherlock. “It’s literally right in front of you.”

“Your point being?”

John stalked over to the phone and picked it up. Sherlock raised a hand, holding it out expectantly, eyes still fixed on the violin, and John tossed it to him.

Sherlock caught it easily. He checked it, scanned the screen, and dropped it in his lap.

John made his way to the kitchen, deciding it was too early to be annoyed with Sherlock already. “Tea?”

“Yes.”

John set himself to the task of making them both tea. He brought two mugs into the living room—setting one with sugar on the coffee table for Sherlock and keeping one without for himself—before he sat.

Sherlock set his violin aside carefully in its case before he took up his mug.

“Any ideas since last night?” asked John, yawning a little and taking a sip of tea.

“Few,” admitted Sherlock. “Research will be needed.”

“You think you can find records?”

“Records? No. But I’m confident there must be cases – unsolved cases – that have some similar threads to them. A common location, a similar style, the same chemical, something. It’s a matter of finding those, and extracting any useful information. Lestrade doesn’t give me every case that comes up, after all.”

“Oh,” said John, not fully understanding Sherlock’s point.

John’s confusion wasn’t hard to spot. The small frown, the slight quirk of the eyebrows, the hint of a furrow in the brow, and the idiotically simplistic replies. “Finding unsolved cases that bear some sort of similarity to the way that Hope’s was orchestrated might give us some sort of idea as to how long Moriarty has been around,” said Sherlock.

“ _Oh_ ,” said John, nodding this time. “Oh. So it’s looking for more of the same.”

“More or less,” said Sherlock. “It wouldn’t hurt to see if there were any other deaths in Afghanistan similar to yours, either. Though I doubt it. Your death was rather circumstantial. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or, the right place at the right time, for us. For solving this.”

John smiled a little. “Lucky for us that I died.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, not sure if John was being satirical or not. He drained his cup of tea in one to save himself the trouble of having to figure out the answer. His mind drifted back to Moriarty.

“So what do we do now?” continued John, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

“Mm?” hummed Sherlock, not paying much attention. “We? We don’t do anything. You stay here, and lie low.”

John scowled deeply and flashed Sherlock an exasperated look. “Tell me you’re joking. You’re not seriously expecting me to sit around here, for days, doing nothing, _again_.”

“Moriarty,” said Sherlock, wrapping his scarf around his neck, “whatever Moriarty is, is trying to eliminate any existing evidence of their crimes. You are that evidence. They’ve already proved willing to kill and steal bodies from morgues. You’re supposed to be dead. Imagine the potential consequences if you were seen by someone associated with Moriarty.”

“What are the odds of that actually happening?” demanded John. “I’m a lot more useful doing something than just sitting here.”

“Even so—“

“Oh, shut up,” said John, and Sherlock was surprised enough that he actually did. “You’re not the only one who’s eager to get going now that he have a name to work with. Come on.”

Sherlock sighed, equally amused and exasperated. “It’s not worth the risk. At least not yet. I’m only beginning the investigation. Just stay here, lie low, and heal your shoulder. Have some tea. Something.”

John sat back, giving Sherlock a furious look.

“You were lecturing me about my lack of patience just a few days ago,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Those were completely different circumstances, and you know it,” retorted John.

“Look, just try, for the time being, to remain inconspicuous,” said Sherlock. “I work better alone anyway.”

John glared.

“I don’t need to be watched constantly,” added Sherlock.

“I wouldn’t be going to watch, I’d be going to _help_.”

“Alone is good, John,” said Sherlock, hands in his pockets as he moved to the door. He paused in the doorframe. “Certainly effective. It’s worked fine for as long as I can remember. Which is quite long. Alone is efficient. Alone protects me.”

“I don’t think it works like that—“ started John, but Sherlock was already gone, and the only one left to hear John’s reply was the skull on the mantle. The door shut with a click, and John could hear the downstairs door open and close only a few seconds later, as Sherlock ventured out into the city.

John glared at the skull as though it had done him a deep and personal wrong, but after a moment he sighed and looked out the window at the London grey just visible over the rooftops.

“… Maybe you’re right,” he said, as if the skull had just said something. “Maybe I don’t really belong here.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock returned to the flat late that afternoon, arms full of case files he’d managed to get from Lestrade (who was too busy filing paperwork for the serial suicides to want to deal with him).

The flat was quiet when he entered. For once, the television was off and the living room was unoccupied, Sherlock’s laptop on the coffee table and the kettle cold.

“John?” said Sherlock in surprise, looking around. He deposited his files on te kitchen table before glancing around again. The lights in the second bedroom were on. "John?" he called again, and there was a thump upstairs in reply.

"Yeah?" came John's voice.

Sherlock climbed the stairs, and peered in through the door to John's room.

He found John sitting on the bed with a notebook propped in his lap, a few books from the living room scattered about. The large medical dictionary on the floor was likely the source of the thump.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" said John.

"It looks like you're writing," said Sherlock. "Though forgive me if I say you don't peg me as the secretly-an-author type."

John rolled his eyes. "Look, I had nothing to do, and I thought I'd try to be useful, so... I'm writing down everything I know about this case, and my death, and everything leading up to it. In case—I dunno, in case you bump me on the stairs or I get hit by a truck or something and die."

"... That's." Sherlock wasn't sure what that was. He blinked, looking at the pages. Even with the writing upside down, he could make out John’s handwriting. A tight scrawl, not unlike the stereotypical doctor’s scribble, but with a more intelligible slant and spacing to it indicating an attention to legibility. An emphasis on the letter J; sharp and slanted. Leaning letters for a left-handed writer. Highly legible capital letters compared to lowercase letters, suggesting possible use of capitals for important memos and standard capitals-lowercase for more informal or personal writings. A signature no larger than the rest of the words, indicating neither pride nor low self-esteem. A slight flourish to the W. No dots over the i.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

_The last thing I remember is the small flash of light in the distance as the dying man dragged me down to tell me something. Then there was the crack, the sudden pain over my heart._

_I have no idea if I said anything or if I screamed. All I had time to think was “Please God, let me live”._

_I didn’t even have the chance to realize I was dead._

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

 

Something twinged painfully in Sherlock’s chest, and he immediately stopped trying to read.

He swallowed.

“Probably pointless, I know,” said John, anticipating disapproval.

“No, no, it’s…” Sherlock’s mind was blank again, his brain derailed for just a second. It was unprecedented, how often John managed to do that. Most people never did. “It’s interesting,” he said finally.

John frowned a little, but seemed to accept the statement for what it was. “I just want to do something useful.”

“This is useful,” said Sherlock. He cautiously reached for a page, and when John didn’t make any objections, he picked it up.

“What about you?” asked John. “Find anything?”

“I’m not sure. I brought some files to go through. Cases,” replied Sherlock. He gestured to the paper in his hand. “Can – can I read these?”

“Uh.” John blinked, and shrugged. “Sure. How about we trade? I wouldn’t mind looking at case files.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “I think that should be acceptable.”

“Good.” John nodded. He slid off the bed and gathered his notes in his arms. “We can move down to the kitchen. More room to spread out.”

Sherlock grabbed an armload of John’s things and helped him move things to the table. Depositing the papers on one end, he opened a few of the case files he’s brought back, and showed them to John. “Somehow, it’s not hard to get Lestrade to agree to let you see these. May have something to do with the fact that you can’t exactly go and tell anyone classified information.”

“Not to mention I _wouldn’t_ do that,” added John, knowing not to be indignant at the suggestion.

“It eases his conscience.”

John picked up a file, and glanced at the header. “I can’t imagine this is easy for him. I doubt he likes keeping secrets. Secrets this big, anyway.”

“He’s benefited more than anything from my secrets. If I had my druthers, he’d know nothing. But it was my lack of caution that made it possible for him to learn what I can do. So I’m stuck with him. And he with me.”

“It’s worked out well for both of you, I think,” said John with a shrug. “He gives you cases to solve and you help him with the ones no one can solve. Everyone wins.”

Sherlock made a face. “That’s the idea, at least.”

John laughed, and focused on the case in hand, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Several newspaper clippings detailed the unsuccessful investigation of a stockbroker’s mysterious demise.

“So what have you got?” he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock, meanwhile, pulled a few of John’s handwritten pages toward himself, and sat down at the table. “A selection of unsolved cases within the London area for the last fifty years.” He examined John’s handwriting. “Where did you begin?”

“With getting deployed to Sangin,” replied John.

“Sangin,” repeated Sherlock. He looked up at John. “Well. Seems we’ve quite a bit of reading to do.”

John pulled out a chair and sat across from Sherlock. “Seems like we do.”

The next few hours passed in unexpected contentedness. John perused files for anything that rang true with his recollections of his experiences both before his death and in listening to Hope’s testimony the previous day. He also amended his notes wherever Sherlock saw fit—“Honestly, sometimes you write like this is a melodramatic novella and not a factual account; _details_ , John, it’s all in the details…”—and listened to Sherlock’s critique of his writing style with only mild irritation. Sherlock, for his part, went through both case files and John’s notes, searching for common threads that might tie it all together. The research was important – essential, even – but tedious. He ordered Chinese takeaway as night was falling, and as soon as it had arrived, he deposited the plastic bag on the counter and grabbed his coat. He could direct his Homeless Network whenever the tedium became too much. He ignored John’s objections about the lateness of the hour and the human body’s need for caloric intake, and swept out into the London night, leaving John to pick aimlessly at eggrolls and lo mein.

 

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> 

_Notebook of Dr. John H. Watson:_

_It's all a bit mad._

_Living with Sherlock Holmes is more than a bit mad._

_I think he might be mad._

_He's certainly full of himself, and really quite rude, and sometimes unbelievably childish and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad._

_But also strangely likeable. He can be charming. He's fascinating. Brilliant. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much._

_I'm not going to be bored._

_At, least, I wouldn't be if I wasn't stuck here like the household ghost, haunting the second bedroom until my death is avenged._

_He's already off again, looking for murderers, and I'm left here with a bag of takeaway._

_My fortune cookie says_

‘Do not take second chances for granted'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> john's notes:  
>  _day 23 of my isolation_  
>  _i think the skull is planning something_  
>  _obviously i don't yet have proof, but i think it's conspiring with the violin_  
>  _i will interrogate the kettle for information_  
>  _god damn it i'm bored_
> 
> ~
> 
> Readers, I owe you all a thousand apologies for the lateness of this chapter. I thought there would be a delay because of finals, but I never anticipated such a massive delay. D: Rest assured I'm doing my best to make up for it!  
> That being said, it was a hideously busy end-of-semester -- I had a really bad fall about four weeks ago and I broke my foot and severely sprained both ankles, so hopping on crutches to classes, to final exams, to work, and then all the way to the opposite side of the country for a conference was made about ten times trickier and a hundred times more exhausting.  
> But I emerge triumphant and with a snazzy cast on my foot!
> 
> This chapter was rather tricky for me, because it felt like a return to the slower pace of chapters past; however, there's a reason for this.  
> I really wanted to introduce John's writing into the story -- not that it'll play a significant part, but it just seems like such a big part of him in the show and of course in the original stories that I wanted him to have some kind of outlet for his feelings when he's shut up alone in 221B while Sherlock's off in DetectiveLand (and obviously a dead army doctor shouldn't have a blog... so it's back to the ol' standby of pen and paper for this Watson, at least for now) -- AND I needed to establish the nature of Sherlock and John's interactions for the next chapter.  
> Sherlock might understand the importance of communication between John and himself a little better now, but he certainly isn't about to bring a potentially recognizable, supposed-to-be-dead person out in the field with him.  
> Something that John's getting progressively more annoyed about. The poor man's bored! BOOOOOORED. Especially when Sherlock's undoubtedly being dangerous and exciting. John's frustrations with being left behind and so often in the dark is undermining his confidence that he should be there. Rather leaves him wondering, what's the point of being alive again if he's useless?  
> Hang in there, John... **ominous gesture**
> 
> Thanks all so much for your patience!  
> And happy holidays! I hope you're all cozy, content, and carefree, and I love you all for sticking with me this long! <3
> 
> Next update is guaranteed before New Year's, or so help me I'll turn myself into shoes.


	14. Not Without Risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day later than promised because of travel - but here comes an insanely long chapter.  
> Happy 2015~!

Sherlock came and went with the permanency of a moth searching for the moon.

Before two days had passed, John moved from his bedroom to the sofa to sleep, just so he’d be around when Sherlock returned with news.

For the most part, Sherlock’s updates were lackluster, at least in John’s eyes. He would give the same report that he’d spoken with potential informants and witnesses about a number of cold cases. Each time, he came up with little more than their description of events, and a profound sense that there was a good reason why no one had ever solved these cases. John could feel a headache coming on after most of these discussions.

When not out roaming the city at all hours of the day and night, Sherlock was combing through case files and, intermittently, John’s notes. He stopped to interrogate John twice concerning details of first his life as an army doctor and then his recollections of his time in the coffin before Sherlock had come to retrieve him.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The facts were these:

 

John Watson’s life as an army doctor had been one of consistent routine and not wholly inconsiderable danger. John and his fellow doctors had served in a mobile capacity rotating to both army and civilian groups in the Helmand district for several months. John himself found himself both serving in makeshift surgeries and in the field without warning, but nevertheless the days formed a sort of routine out of necessity, at least in terms of food, rest, and scarce time spent away from injured, sick, and dying. John had enjoyed his work. The barracks were attacked on a couple separate occasions. In the months he had been deployed, John’s colleagues (his _friends_ ) came, went, returned home, even died. Bombings near the cities weren’t unusual, but were never any less horrifying. Sometimes they could get a quiet night to drink with the rest of the soldiers and truck drivers by the Helmand. John had started learning how to throw knives. The translators had taught him some Pashtu. He was, in his own words, an ‘okay shot’, but left most of the shooting to the fighters. He’d saved a lot of lives in Afghanistan. He’d taken some, too.

Nothing unusual had happened in the few days before his death. Nothing, at least, that was more unusual than his life already was.

 

About the coffin, John remembered nothing of interest. Cramped, boring, silent darkness, until Sherlock’s head materialized out of the dark, and John slammed his head into the lid.

 

~o~O~o~

 

In return for this information about his life in Afghanistan and his brief stint in a coffin, Sherlock deigned to inform John which of the case files he’d brought held any chance of a lead. There was a missing car salesman, an American tourist stuffed inside a hotel washing machine, a stolen art piece from a museum in Beijing, a Ukrainian businessman inexplicably dead from a bullet through his office window in Abu Dhabi.

“… I’m really not seeing how that’s at all similar to the cabbie,” said John, each and every time.

“Nor am I,” was Sherlock’s reply. “Not yet.”

Ultimately, John found himself idly writing in his notebook or reading through the files Sherlock designated ‘potentially promising’ whenever Sherlock was out (which was, easily, most of the time) and letting Sherlock bounce ideas off of him whenever the Detective was in. His only solace in the entire thing was that Sherlock always returned for the night—sometimes closer to the morning than the night, but still—so John didn’t have to worry too much. The threat of Moriarty became more of a rumbling and distant storm cloud, and less of an immediate and inevitable lightning strike to the chest. He didn’t need to anxiously pace whenever Sherlock ventured out.

Not _every_ time, anyway.

Lestrade visited on the third day of this routine, during one of the long interludes where Sherlock was away. When John answered the door, Lestrade blinked a few times in surprise, clearly still getting used to John being one of the residents at 221B. At least this time, this visit didn’t start off with John lurking in the shadows on the stairs, desperately hoping to avoid detection.

“Hey,” said the Inspector. “Sherlock in?”

“No,” answered John, holding open the door for Lestrade. “I think he said something about trying to talk to some museum curator about teapots. I don’t have a clue either,” he added, when Lestrade gave him a baffled look. “He’s barely in now. It’s Moriarty at all hours of the day. I’m under house arrest with no idea what’s happening.”

Lestrade patted John bracingly on the shoulder, albeit a little awkwardly. “I probably don’t need to tell you this is what he’s always like when he’s got a case.”

“I somehow got that impression,” said John.

“Try not to let it worry you too much,” continued Lestrade. “Usually, if he’s really into something, I can’t get a hold of him. Sometimes for days. I think I left him something like thirty messages once. Don’t panic, if you can’t get a hold of him.”

“Good to know,” said John, though he couldn’t quite resolve himself to the idea that, even if he called several times, Sherlock would write it off as nothing and carry on. Surely Sherlock would notice. … Wouldn’t he?

Lestrade buried his hands deep in his pockets. “You doing all right? I guess this must be – pretty weird.”

John half-laughed. “Weird doesn’t even begin to cover it. But it’s good. I’m good. I think.” He shrugged. “Sherlock certainly keeps things interesting, whenever he actually shares his progress.”

“Yeah, that he does,” chuckled Lestrade. “I’ve never been this stressed, but work’s never been this good, either.”

John smiled. “Sorry to have added to your stress.”

“No, no,” said Lestrade, shaking his head. “Honestly… Look, I was bloody pissed Sherlock hid all of this from me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s almost a relief to have someone else who knows about all this. And frankly someone else to keep an eye on Sherlock.”

John laughed. “That’s understandable. It’s nice, not having to pretend when I’m talking to you. And God knows Sherlock’s next to impossible to deal with. I can’t believe you kept an eye on him yourself until now. I usually feel like his—“

“Babysitter,” said John and Lestrade at the same time, and both men laughed loudly at that.

“What’s so funny?” came Sherlock’s suspicious drawl from the hallway. Both John and Lestrade turned, to find Sherlock standing in the doorway tugging off his scarf, and their giggles redoubled.

Sherlock scowled furiously and crossed into the kitchen, sitting down at the table still covered in case files and John’s notes. After giving John and Lestrade another glare, he turned away from them and picked through the case files. “It doesn’t take a genius to know who you’re laughing at.”

John and Lestrade traded amused looks before joining Sherlock in the kitchen.

“I assume you’re here for a reason, Lestrade,” continued Sherlock, riffling through a folder.

“I’ve a couple cases, if you’re interested,” said Lestrade, hands back in his pockets. “I called, but since I didn’t hear from you, I figured I’d come by and check. Wanted to see how John was doing with things anyway.”

“Do the cases have anything to do with Moriarty?” asked Sherlock, not looking up.

Lestrade blinked. “Uh… I don’t know?”

“I can answer for you,” said Sherlock, trading significant looks with John, and then Lestrade. “They almost certainly don’t. And all things considered, I think you’re going to want me to focus on the massive and deadly case that you’re not permitted to actively devote yourself to when you’ve a whole division to run.”

“So, no,” clarified Lestrade.

“No.” Sherlock opened a file, read the heading, piled it on top of a few others, and then cast Lestrade a withering look. “If it doesn’t have to do with Moriarty, then I’m not interested. The last few days of investigations have made it apparent to me that I have on my hands the most complex and demanding case I’ve ever encountered, and I _refuse_ to be sidetracked for some pointless little simple problem your team of lackwits can’t be bothered to figure out.”

Lestrade looked exasperated, but John somewhat more intrigued. “So you really do have a lead? Do you think any of these cases have to do with Moriarty?”

“If my suspicions are correct—and they usually are—then at least sixty percent of the ones I brought back here to 221B are possibilities, and those aren’t anywhere near all the potential cases,” replied Sherlock, gathering the stack of files and dragging them a little closer to himself.

Lestrade whistled. “Christ.”

“I believe we are dealing with an _empire_ ,” said Sherlock seriously. “Something more than a simple terrorist sect in London or a particularly ambitious criminal. We’re dealing with a long-seated, growing web of crime. This Moriarty, whoever they are and however many they are, is like a great spider at the center of this vast web. And like a spider web, the strings are essentially invisible until it’s too late to get away.”

 “What do you mean?” asked John.

Sherlock smacked the topmost case file pointedly. “I mean, if I am right in suspecting these cases are _all_ related to the same Moriarty, then the only thing that marks them as Moriarty’s handiwork is that they are all nearly perfect in their inscrutability.”

“… Meaning?” prompted Lestrade.

“Meaning I was not exaggerating when I commented on their exceptional skill as a criminal,” elaborated Sherlock, wishing the effort to keep up by both Doctor and Inspector was considerably greater.

“Hang on. Are you seriously saying the only way to tell it’s something to do with Moriarty is that it’s otherwise unsolvable?” said John, looking at Sherlock with enough skepticism to deter even Sherlock’s excitement.

“… Yes,” said Sherlock sourly.

“That’s not a lead,” said Lestrade.

John nodded.

“I’m telling you, there’s something here,” insisted Sherlock. “There’s something to it, even if I can’t explain it to the likes of you two.”

“Sherlock,” started John, “it’s not legitimate if you can’t explain it to the likes of us. Because you can’t possibly chase a lead that’s only as airtight as ‘well, no one else could have done it so it must be the anonymous criminal mastermind’. That’s completely moronic.”

Sherlock mentally applauded John for his willingness to do what Lestrade never dared and actually call Sherlock moronic, but he didn’t appreciate the vote of no-confidence.

“Obviously I haven’t finished investigating,” he said.

John raised an eyebrow. “Can I help?”

“I’ll be wanting tea, whenever I get back,” said Sherlock, picking up his small stack of files.

“Back?” repeated John, and he couldn’t keep the hint of frustration out of his tone. “You’ve barely been here five minutes and you’re off _again_?”

Sherlock frowned uncertainly. “What, do you expect me to sit around here wasting time? Running into Lestrade was rather opportune.”

“Was it?” said Lestrade in surprise.

Sherlock turned on the police officer. “I wanted to get access to the final notes on the serial suicides. Particularly the toxicology reports. I think I’m onto something.”

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Not sure I can get you that. You’re not affiliated with the case and it looks strange if I give you access to things for no reason.”

“Make up a reason.”

“I can’t just make up a reason, Sherlock.”

“Try.”

“I can’t,” protested Lestrade. “I really can’t have people digging around in this case. I don’t need to try to slap together some sort of a cover-up on top of everything else. This is already messy enough.”

“Anderson will never notice. Just give me his files and he’ll think he lost them. Or his head will explode. Either way, it’ll be fine.”

Lestrade shook his head. “I can only promise I’ll try. But on my end, I can’t keep handing out police records of ongoing cases. Not even with this. I need a little more solid information to go on than you just have a good feeling about it. That doesn’t sound important.”

Sherlock ground his teeth and snapped, “But this _is_ important! This is Moriarty we’re talking about.”

“Look,” said Lestrade, “We both know that’s what this is about, but no one else does. If you’re looking to get a hold of more information on everything, why don’t you see about trying to get higher access from your…“

Sherlock’s glare was so intense that Lestrade was beginning to sweat, and the suggestion died off.

John looked from one man to the other. “Your what?” he finally prompted.

“My arch enemy,” grumbled Sherlock in a low and threatening tone, which drew a long sigh from Lestrade. “To whom nothing is private.”

“Do people even have arch enemies?” said John. “Outside of comic books.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead he straightened. “I’ll see if Molly Hooper can provide me with access to documents and reports.”

“No,” said Lestrade flatly. “You’re going to get her fired just by asking nicely for things you aren’t allowed to have.”

Sherlock had the grace to look uncomfortable, but John could tell it was only because Lestrade had hit the nail on the head. “I find empty compliments yield results. Is that so wrong?”

“A bit,” said John sharply. Though he’d yet to meet her in person, John was aware from Sherlock that Molly had been the person in charge of John’s body when he was still dead. He felt he owed it to her to be on her side.

Sherlock’s shoulders drooped. If he paid much heed to the thoughtful and logical aspect of the situation, he could reason that Lestrade’s caution stemmed from several things, with an overarching fear of being discovered in a supernatural lie that could end his career at the top of the list. John, Sherlock knew, was resistant only in an attempt to convince Sherlock that the smart thing to do was let him out of the flat.

There was some part of Sherlock’s mind that felt a twinge of regret that John was on his own in 221B during this investigation. But Sherlock had never felt any desire to operate with another human being in tow. Especially one with an entirely unique and potentially catastrophic identity. Sherlock didn’t need help. After all, he knew no one who could keep pace with him. John was adept more than anyone Sherlock knew at surprising him, but what good would that do at the scene of a crime or in the midst of a chase? Little to none, he was willing to bet.

No, John needed to stay here.

He could do this himself. He just needed the space and permission to do so.

“You’re making this impossible for me,” said Sherlock, looking at Lestrade once more as he spoke. “How can you possibly expect me to do anything about this without being detected if even you are blocking me at every turn?”

“I know you’re frustrated…” started Lestrade, but Sherlock ignored him.

“I’ve better things to do than argue,” he lied, as he stepped around John and Lestrade back towards the door. “When you feel like assisting the process instead of inhibiting it, do let me know.”

“Sherlock!” said John, hurrying to join him at the door. John hovered uncertainly, aware he would be unwise to get too close to Sherlock for fear of accidental contact but also wanting to lean in and speak urgently. Sherlock was kind enough to stop walking, but not enough to stop from scowling. “Where are you gonna go now?” asked John, and Sherlock could see a determined edge to John’s facial expression that meant Sherlock knew exactly why John was asking.

“I’m still working that out,” said Sherlock shortly and with considerable venom. “For the most part, _out_. If we’re going to be inhibited in our investigations again, I’d at least like to be sure I’ve used all possible means of continuing before I have to fight with Scotland Yard over what _paperwork_ I’m allowed to have.”

“I could go with you,” suggested John, for the twenty-second time in two days, four hours, and nineteen minutes (Sherlock had been counting). “I could maybe talk to someone for you, or I could go along, or I could help jog some memories, or—“

“John.” Sherlock gave him a look that was equally exasperated and uncertain. “I’ll… think about it.”

John did a double take. “Really?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, opening the door. “Just—not right now.” And he was gone.

Lestrade joined John in the doorway, and together they listened for the telltale sound of the front door opening and closing.

“If Moriarty is as dangerous as we think he is,” said John, eyes still fixed on the downstairs landing, “then shouldn’t Sherlock be going out there with some kind of backup, at the very least?”

Lestrade nodded gravely. “Yeah. But try telling him that. You’ve seen how well he listens.” He patted John bracingly on the shoulder, and collected himself to depart as well. “Hang in there. And don’t worry too much. Sherlock’s reckless, but he’s good at what he does. The best.”

John gave Lestrade a brief smile, and watched as Lestrade descend the stairs. The smile didn’t last as he turned away and shut the door to the flat with a disappointed click.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock walked.

His feet carried him to a few street corners, where he checked the usual locations where his Homeless would leave paper notes. There was nothing new there. No new distractions.

Sherlock trudged aimlessly in the direction of Bart’s. He didn’t want to go back to the flat just yet. He needed something more. He didn’t want to yet admit defeat, and surrender to the human need for sleep, or food, or socialization, or rest. He wanted answers. He wanted to keep going at full speed.

By the time he made it to Bart’s, it was late. He saw Molly’s car still in the lot where she always parked during the day, and knew by the hour and by the number of paper bags in the backseat of her car that Molly was not working late, but had instead gone out to get groceries before remembering she’d forgotten something at the morgue. Something mundane, there was no question. It was perfect timing. If she was in, of course she would help him look into things…

Sherlock made for the entrance to the morgue hallway.

Molly was on her way out, a knitted cardigan replacing her usual white lab coat and her hair, for once, down and out of her standard ponytail, when Sherlock reached the doors. When she spotted him, Molly jumped in surprise and dropped her keys with a loud clatter on the asphalt.

“Sherlock!” she said, flustered, giving him a smile. “Hi! I haven’t seen you in – well, I mean, it’s been – how are you?”

“Fine, I’m fine,” said Sherlock, stooping to pick up her keys. Even in the dim light of distant street lamps and the lights along the side of the building, Sherlock could tell that Molly had turned several shades of pink, ranging from a gentle blush to a rather violent fuchsia. “You?” he added, attempting to restart her brain function.

“I’m good,” she said, very red in the face. “I was just heading out. Can – can I – did you need something?”

Sherlock looked at her, and the half-formulated lie he was concocting in order to get access to the cabbie’s victims bloodwork gave up without much of a fight.

“No, I was just… out,” he said, and the effort was almost painful.

He could see John, in his mind, standing with arms crossed and a faint scowl on his face—but, the imaginary John gave a satisfied nod.

“Any news on the Watson body?” he asked automatically, without giving it much thought.

Molly looked at him closely, faint puzzlement in her expression. “No, no, there hasn’t been anything. It’s horrible. We’ve never had anything like this happen, not ever. We’re all under a lot of scrutiny now, of course. It’s very upsetting. I feel awful.”

“I shouldn’t worry too much,” said Sherlock shortly. “You did nothing wrong.”

Molly seemed to take this as some kind of reassurance, because she beamed again.

“Well,” said Sherlock, feeling at a complete loss all of a sudden. He held out Molly’s keys and dropped them into her hands. “I should let you go. Nice talking to you. Bye.”

“I – oh, right, yes,” stammered Molly, blushing anew. She pocketed her keys and gave Sherlock one last look before she said, “Bye, Sherlock, have a nice night!” and hurried away to her car, her face very red.

When Molly had left (giving him a timid wave as she drove away), Sherlock dug in his pocket and lit a cigarette. He leaned against the doors for several minute, taking long drags and expelling the smoky air from his lungs in discontented sighs. The night draped over the city like a heavy blanket and wrapped the solitary Detective in shadows, the glowing ember at the end of his cigarette illuminating his face in brief flashes.

Sherlock eventually ground the rest of the cigarette into the pavement with his heel. It was impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London. He’d need to get back to nicotine patches. Perhaps tonight was a good time to simply make this business a three patch problem. After all, the toxins used in several crimes still looked potentially promising. With so little information to use as his starting base, the night called for multiple patches. And perhaps a cup of tea, if John was still awake when he returned.

Sherlock paused before he could step out to the main road, and turned back only long enough to walk past the large delivery doors at the rear of the building.

Someone had planned to smuggle John’s body out through those doors not two weeks ago.

After a long moment, Sherlock turned on his heel again, wandering the back street out towards the main road. Not for the first time, he found himself running through the same questions. What could be gained in removing John’s body from the morgue? Did Moriarty make a mistake? Could John’s body, or his death, be enough to bring Moriarty’s full identity to the surface, perhaps? Was Moriarty afraid of something being discovered? Or were they looking for something?

Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

Sherlock raised his brows in some surprise; considering what time it was. John did not have a phone, and Lestrade was undoubtedly asleep at this hour of the night. His Homeless sometimes contacted him by text, but even so, this was unusual. Sherlock did not have any friends he texted with. He did not have anyone he regularly kept in contact with who was not either directly involved with his work or, at present, living in the same building as he was.

Sherlock dug out his phone, and read the name of the sender. In the briefest fraction of a second, his surprise became panic, and then unbridled agitation. He opened the text hurriedly. It read:

 

_I don’t recall you ever enjoying being sociable._

 

Sherlock stared at the text.

“You must be joking,” he snared after a moment, fingers digging a little too forcefully into the keyboard as he typed out his reply. His heart beat ever so faster against his ribcage.

 

_Same could be said for you. I was rather_

_enjoying NOT hearing from you. –SH_

_Who’s the new tenant on the third floor?_

 

Sherlock ground his teeth and swallowed hard, mouth dry. He’d known this was coming, but he didn’t have the patience for it. Not now. Not in the middle of all of this. He had bigger problems. More important secrets.

Sherlock had never been one to tolerate another person digging around for his secrets, and this was no exception. In fact, this might be one of the most significant examples of situations in which inquiries were not welcome. In fact, unwelcome. Actively discouraged. Largely forbidden. Universally prohibited.

 

_Do you only contact me when you want to_

_show off? Your god complex is showing._

_Excuse me if I refrain from humoring you._

_If I had any interest in conversing with_

_you, I would have indicated as such. I will_

_instead leave you to controlling the world_

_from your little office like the domineering_

_prat you are. –SH_

_You’re hiding something._

 

Sherlock bristled at the text. He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stood a full five seconds, letting the annoyance bubble up to the surface before he replied.

 

_Don’t start. You’re wasting your time and_

_energy, and I know how much you hate_

_wasting either of those things. –SH_

 

The reply was short and almost immediate.

 

_Don’t be childish._

_Leave. Me. Alone. –SH_

 

Sherlock typed each punctuating dot with a certain amount of unnecessary aggression, and hit ‘Send’, before he shoved his mobile back in his pocket.

The last thing he needed right now was interference. It was already difficult enough keeping John even remotely comfortable with the situation and Lestrade vaguely satisfied with the progression of their various investigations. He did not have the will or patience to deal with anyone creating more inconveniences.

Sherlock kicked a pebble on the sidewalk with particular vehemence and forced himself to move on to other thoughts.

The fact that he had not received a reply in over thirty seconds meant he was not the primary topic of interest; when almost two minutes had passed, he knew he was in the clear for the time being. A little unpleasantness could go a long way at this kind of hour. It was approaching one in the morning now.

The entire world seemed to be converging on this case. Sherlock’s work life was now focused on the enormity that was the looming whispering threat of Moriarty. His private life was nothing _but_ this case, now that he felt responsible for John. And was cohabiting a space with another living human being. The world radiated infinite possibilities for Moriarty. Infinite sources of potential information, of possible leads. And now on top of everything, he had to find some way to deal with—

A passing woman, older and small in stature, rounded the corner ahead of him and ambled past. She nearly collided with him. Sherlock sidestepped her (any other person might have offered a steadying arm, but this was Sherlock) and kept walking.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

Sherlock turned on his heel in time to see a glimmer of something in the woman’s hand, who had spun around as he moved passed and reached after him. Instinctively, Sherlock reached towards her outstretched arm with both of his, catching her arm mid-lunge, and in a flash he pressed against the inside of the woman’s wrist with one hand and slammed against the back of her hand with the other. Her fist opened automatically, and the inertia from his hit sent the object in her hand flying through the air, until it scattered across the pavement.

The object—a tiny glass needle—shattered.

Sherlock made sure it did. He stepped to the side and shoved the woman so that she stumbled a little, and in so doing crushed the needle to glass dust under the heel of her shoe.

He’d been stupid, letting himself get distracted while still out in the open and vulnerable. But Sherlock rarely let his guard down fully, and this was not an exception to that Rule.

The woman and Sherlock both took several careful steps away from each other and stopped.

The stranger straightened and surveyed him. “Sherlock Holmes,” she said, her strong accent suggesting she was a native of China.

Sherlock’s lips quirked up at the corners. Oh, this was unexpected. He hadn’t anticipated being tailed so early in the Game.

“And if I am?” he said.

The little old woman didn’t waste any time. She raised her hand in a signal, and Sherlock knew it was only a matter of seconds before he would be outnumbered.

“You work for Moriarty? You do, don’t you?” he demanded.

“You talk too much, Mr. Holmes,” said the woman flatly, and Sherlock almost laughed with excitement.

Almost.

He probably would have, if a fist hadn’t slammed into the back of his head with enough force to make him see stars.

Sherlock leaned forward with the punch, reaching over his head to grab the arm the fist was attached to and haul his attacker over his shoulder. Sherlock was lean, and tall, but he was all muscle. He might not be able to out-hit an opponent, but he could outmaneuver them. The only question was if he could outmaneuver all of them fast enough to get away.

He did love challenges.

The back of his head ached from the last punch, and he hurried to collect himself as the second attacker lay sprawled on the ground in front of him.

Sherlock heard more approaching footsteps. Three—no, four attackers, including the old woman. All light tread. Careful. Cautious. Measured.

He sensed, rather than saw, the incoming hit on his left, and he dropped down to avoid it, and spun out a leg to knock out the attacker’s.

The world slowed for him.

His surroundings moved with an impossible deliberateness in time for his mind to break down every detail, and assess.

None of his attackers had guns drawn. He could see a small caliber handgun in the belt of one, and a knife strapped to the thigh of one of the others. But the gun was away, so clearly they didn’t just want him dead. The woman had held a glass needle and potentially had more. So, their aim was to leave Sherlock alive but subdued and unable to discern where they were going. The three men who had joined the older woman were all younger, as well as strong, muscled, and skilled. At least two were trained in some kind of hand-to-hand combat. No obvious marks of a gang on their faces or hands. Little talking. But certainly all a team—were they partners? Not mercenaries. Smugglers? All Chinese. The woman was not related to any of them. The one Sherlock was currently in the process of tripping had a drinking problem that he was attempting to conceal from the woman. The other two were competing. This was a competition, as well as an assignment.

Sherlock’s feet connected with the knees of the man attacking him, sending the man flying, and Sherlock rolled away and to his feet just as his opponent smacked the pavement with a grunt of pain.

Glass glinted in the old woman’s hand in the light from a streetlamp.

His only chance of getting out of this, Sherlock knew, was a fast escape. If he could take out the smaller of the two men still standing, he could flee around the corner. The high street would still have some light traffic. They wouldn’t attack him there, only chase him.

A fast punch in the face for the one closest, the one with the gun, a kick to the shins, and then run. Left, right, down the street, and keep running. Call Lestrade if the attackers were not lost by then, and he could double back so they wouldn’t find the house. Remain in sight and on crowded streets.

Sherlock lunged.

He hit the man with the gun right in the throat, using the side of his hand like a blade to jab, hard. The man reeled, taken aback by Sherlock’s speed and by the sudden cutoff of oxygen, and Sherlock hooked a foot around the back of his legs and sent the man crashing to the ground with a strangled yelp of pain.

A hand dug unexpectedly into his upper arm and dragged him back. Sherlock fell, tucking his head to try to keep himself from hitting it on the ground, and he rolled once more to his feet. His knees were probably bleeding.

The man he’d first knocked down had already leapt to his feet. He dove at Sherlock, and they tumbled, Sherlock slamming his thumb back into the man’s eye. His attacker howled, but clung on.

Damn it, they were even better than he’d anticip—

Sherlock heard the woman hiss something (“Bì zuǐ!”), and then she snapped at the last man standing, “Before we are _seen_!”

Sherlock slammed his head back, and a dull crack announced his success in breaking the nose of the man on the ground with him.

Sherlock barely had time to twist in order to get to his feet before a fist solidly connected with his face.

His feet went out from under him. Sherlock’s head smacked the ground.

The world, which had seemed to slow for his deductions only a minute earlier, now spun much faster than it was supposed to, as if trying to make up for lost time.

Sherlock clawed at the ground in an attempt to drag himself up, his head pounding from the effort.

Something bit the skin on his hand, and immediately, his arm gave out.

The needles.

The effect was immediate, the sensation distinct and identifiable.

At least, it should be. He thought it was. It was… he knew this, he knew he did. Fast-acting… fast… God, his head hurt.

Sherlock’s elbows would not support him.

He needed to get up.

For some reason.

The Earth was spinning much too fast.

Or not at all. It might have stopped.

He wasn’t sure.

Was he?

He wasn’t.

He was always sure.

Sure about…

He was supposed to be getting back to – to wherever he lived.

People would talk.

People would worry.

Skull might worry.

Not the skull.

Different dead person.

Dead John.

His head was bleeding.

Night was swallowing him whole.

Sherlock made one last effort to get up before everything went dark.

 

~o~O~o~

 

When John finally gave up and dozed off, the sun was already beginning to rise, the sky over London tinged a faint red over the grey of the rooftops. The flat was silent, and still. His eyelids drooped over and over again until he surrendered to sleep, wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa—just as he’d been doing all week—so he’d known when Sherlock returned.

The sound of the door opening wrenched John from restless sleep, and he sat bolt upright, bleary-eyed and halfway between sleep and panic.

“It’s only me,” said Mrs. Hudson, pushing her way in carrying a tray set with two mugs.

“Sorry,” said John, looking around as he tried to blink the sleep out of his eyes. “Do you know when Sherlock got back?”

“No idea,” answered the landlady. “I went to bed early, and I didn’t hear him come in. But I could hear you pacing around so late, so I thought you both might like some coffee.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, setting his feet on the floor and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll wake him up and we’ll come down later, yeah?”

Mrs. Hudson flapped a hand at him. “It’s no trouble. I’m just doing it this once. I’m not your housekeeper after all, but it’s nice to check in on you boys.”

John smiled tiredly. “Guess we need it. I was so tired that I didn’t even hear Sherlock come in last night.”

“Well, scold him for me,” tittered Mrs. Hudson. “I’m just popping next door to see Mr. Chatterjee, and then I’ll be in this afternoon.”

John nodded, and after a few more moments of bustling, Mrs. Hudson patted John fondly on the arm, and departed. The landlady had grown on John in the time he’d been living at 221B, and there was something inexplicably comforting in even just a pat on the shoulder. It felt like years since he’d last had any actual physical contact with anyone, though in truth it was only a couple short weeks.

John got to his feet and peered down the hall at Sherlock’s bedroom door, which was shut just as it had been last night. “Sherlock, you in? Mrs. H brought coffee.”

There was no answer, though this wasn’t all that unusual. Sherlock never seemed to sleep, but on the rare occasions he slunk away to his bedroom, John had found that the man never budged unless he wanted to.

John trudged sluggishly down the hall to Sherlock’s room, and knocked. When there was no reply, he cautiously turned the handle and pushed the door open. “Hello?”

John opened the door fully.

There was no one in.

No Sherlock.

John frowned. A glance around the room revealed no sign of the Detective. The room was a mess—a jumble of blankets, scattered clothes, wayward newspapers, mismatched chemistry equipment—but there was no black overcoat, no scarf, no shoes, and no Sherlock.

Feeling distinctly more awake now, John looked around the rest of the flat, but there was no sign of Sherlock. At last, he came to a stop in the middle of the living room, licking his lips anxiously.

“Did he seriously not come home last night?” he said aloud. “Christ, this is getting ridiculous...”

John convinced himself to sit and drink his own cup of coffee. He did so slowly, drawing it out as if hoping Sherlock would materialize during that time. Sherlock’s coffee cooled, then grew cold. John’s mug sat, empty, in his hands for quite some time before he finally set it down.

John retreated upstairs. He showered, removed his stitches, and bandaged the wound. He jotted down a few final notes on the way it had healed for Sherlock to peruse later. He dressed. He returned to the living room and read the newspaper. Then watched the news. Then paced.

And paced.

And paced.

John had never wanted a mobile phone before now—it wasn’t as if he needed one, being supposed-dead and isolated and all—but now, he found himself desperately wishing for the ability to send a text.

Mrs. Hudson came and went. John pretended all was well, and that there wasn’t a deep and gnawing unease growing in the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t eat anything. He didn’t eat all day.

As it began to grow dark out, John hastened downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, and dialed the number for Sherlock’s mobile.

The call was rejected after one ring.

John waited for a long moment before he returned back upstairs. He opened Sherlock’s laptop and searched for news. Nothing.

Night had fallen.

John started looking. He couldn’t call the police in the obvious way, he knew that much.

But there was a policeman he could call.

Sherlock’s goddamn perfect memory made it redundant for him to write down much of anything in terms of addresses and phone numbers, but John was sure there had to be a copy of the mobile number he needed somewhere in the flat. He tore the living room apart, and then the kitchen, until at last—tucked inside a cookbook being used to raise a Bunsen burner to a more agreeable height—he found a business card with Lestrade’s mobile number scribbled on the back. He raced back downstairs, and he dialed Sherlock’s mobile again.

It went straight to voicemail.

John tried four more times, with the same result.

He read the number off the back of the card and dialed the policeman’s number.

Ring.

Ring.

It was already late.

A yawn. “Hello?”

“Greg—it’s John.”

“John? Uh. Bit late, don’t you think?… What’s up?”

“I’m not sure, but – but I think something might have happened to Sherlock.”

“… _Fuck_. What do you mean?”

It took John one minute and forty-one seconds to relay the full extent of the situation. It took an additional fifty-seven seconds to tell Lestrade how long it had been since he’d heard from Sherlock, where he thought he might be, and how wrong things might have gone, and for the policeman to reply.

It took John only seventy-three seconds to hang up the phone and sprint up three flights of stairs to his bedroom, pull on his jacket, secure his gun against the square of his back, and fly back down the stairs and out into the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... whoops  
>  well  
> um
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> _RUN JOHN RUN_  
>   
> 
>  
> 
> Happy New Year!  
> Any and all feedback --comments most of all -- is hugely appreciated! It tells me I should keep going! :)  
> Thanks! :D


	15. Nerves of Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I've wasted too much time desperately trying (and failing) to make this chapter perfect.  
> I hope it's a good one!

At the age of nine years, ten months, and four days, Young Sherlock found himself in the washroom of his boarding school, holding a rag to his bleeding nose for the fourth time since he had arrived at the school some sixteen months and twelve days previously.

This bloody nose had occurred much in the same way as the three that predated it. Young Sherlock’s nose had (thanks to some of the older boys in the dormitory) connected with a fist that did not belong to him, as it was traveling towards his face in an attempt to rearrange some of its features.

Young Sherlock sniffed miserably and dabbed some of the blood from his chin with a wet paper towel.

They did not pick on him often, but when they needed someone to hit, it helped them to know there was always going to be someone who would never have any backup. After all, Young Sherlock had shut everyone out long ago. He did not call for help. Young Sherlock did not think it was wise for him to let people in, not when it was so easy for _sentimental_ things to find their way out. Sentimental things that might endanger those who got too close to him. And it seemed pointless, besides, to permit someone else to befriend him when all it was going to get them was a bloody nose and a surplus of conversation they’d never be able to understand.

It took Young Sherlock the better part of twenty minutes to clean himself up enough to look as if nothing had happened. There would be bruising, probably, and he would make up some excuse so the teachers would keep out of it. The last thing he needed was an intervention that involved his parents or older brother. No, he’d rather everyone just left him alone.

No, Young Sherlock decided, at nine years, ten months, four days, six hours, and thirty-seven minutes, as he walked back to his bedroom, slammed and locked the door, and curled up in the dark under his blankets. No. He could fix this on his own. He could do this alone.

The next day, Young Sherlock made his way straight to the library as soon as classes were over. For him, answers always came from information. The library contained a fair number of tomes on martial arts techniques. This was all the coaching he required.

There was one style in particular that struck a chord, so much so that Young Sherlock began practicing every chance he got. Books in the library became his instructor. Diagrams of men in tall hats and long suit coats, walking sticks elegantly in hand, beating the stuffing out of one another, became his inspiration. Baritsu became his pastime.

Someday, Young Sherlock told himself as he lay awake late at night with bruised knuckles and hurt pride, when he was a detective, he would be one who could find the people responsible for heinous crimes _and_ bring them to face legal justice, whether they wanted to face it or not.

For now, he had justice of his own to hand out.

In Baritsu, there were three main goals: to disturb the equilibrium of the assailant, to surprise them before they found the time to regain their balance, and to win by subjecting joints in the opponent’s body to strains that they were anatomically and mechanically unable to resist. All this was done by using agility and intelligence rather than strength—drawing on skills established by taekwondo of Korea, the judo and karate of Japan, and the boxing style of the United Kingdom’s fighters—so that defeat looked effortless. Strength was a luxury. Baritsu was a form of self-defense devised by gentlemen, for gentlemen, who wanted to thump would-be robbers with their canes and continue their saunter home from the club. Young Sherlock thought it could be easily enough applied to his own situation.

Even at the age of nine years and however many months, Young Sherlock could not quite help that desperate inner need to show off, if only a little. The temptation to be able to knock his enemies in the dust before they had the time to utter their first taunt and not even break a sweat was too good to pass up.

Young Sherlock practiced, and Young Sherlock read, and Young Sherlock waited. He wouldn’t be the one to start a confrontation—instead, he would endeavour to be the one to end the confrontations. Permanently. He just wanted to be left alone. To be ignored, even. That was all he wanted. To be left alone. None of them knew about Young Sherlock’s Gift for bringing the dead back to life, but then, they didn’t need to know for their taunting to hurt. Young Sherlock was already alone. That was painful enough, without their help.

It was only a matter of time, and his chance would come.

Sure enough, it did come.

Young Sherlock was ten years, one month, and thirteen days old when his afternoon was interrupted by an exhilarated “Lookit, Sherly has a book. What are you reading, Sherly?”

It was the break between classes and dinner. Young Sherlock always spent this time reading, generally on his own in some quiet corner of the building. It was February, so he was restricted to the indoors. And his desire to find a place to read away from everyone else came with the stipulation that, if there were to be any trouble, he would be far away from everyone who might think to step in.

Young Sherlock did not look up from the book. “I have asked you to stop calling me that,” he said, trying to sound calm.

“Aw, why? Does it bother you, _Sherly_?” said the boy in charge.

Young Sherlock did look up this time. “I don’t like it,” he said, voice steady even though his heart was hammering against his ribcage.

The boy—a large boy with brown hair that usually led the anti-Holmes efforts, who was currently thirteen years, eight months, and twenty days old—suddenly snatched Young Sherlock’s book out of his hands, and held it aloft for the three friends behind him to examine. Young Sherlock leapt to his feet, but the book was already out of reach over his head.

“Lookit!” said the Bully, voice louder now that he’d found something new to make fun of. “Looks like arts and crafts if you ask me. Look at these big needles on the cover. Are you _knitting_ , freak?”

 “It’s about _acupuncture_ ,” began Young Sherlock, exerting considerable mental effort to the task of staying in control. “Which you would know, if you could actually _read_ the title—“

The Bully’s face screwed up into an indignant snarl, and he dropped the book on the ground in order to shove Young Sherlock backwards against the wall, so his head smacked it painfully. “You calling me stupid? You saying I’m stupid, Sherly?“

The back of Young Sherlock’s head was pounding from the hit against the wall, but his blood was singing, and his Mind Palace had come alive so that the doors of opportunity opened. A voice in his mind, his own, whispered: _it’s time_.

“Spare me the asinine insults for once, if you please. I have heard them all and I am tired of it,” he snapped, standing up straight as a rod and clenching his little hands into fists.

“Big words,” said one of the cronies. Another whistled. The third said, “Freak.”

Young Sherlock kept his eyes on the leader. Young Sherlock was only a child, and inexperienced in the ways of the world, but he knew enough about people—and, truth be told, enough about boys, and bullies, and morons—to know that all it took was one to make his point.

“I’m telling you once,” said Young Sherlock, and he looked the lead Bully straight in the eye. “Leave. Me. Alone.”

_This mustn’t register on an emotional level_ , he told himself. To get angry, to be frightened, to wish for help—all were pointless. He didn’t need anyone.

His opponent swung back his fist.

Young Sherlock stepped in.

In one instantaneous, perfect moment, the world slowed for Young Sherlock as if it was showing him exactly what he had to do.

Young Sherlock countered the incoming hit by parrying it to the left. As his opponent stumbled forward a few steps, Young Sherlock sidestepped. As one movement, he jabbed one elbow, hard, into the soft tissue between shoulder and neck while he slammed his heel onto the other boy’s foot. He then turned in a calm half-circle and lightly kicked the back of the boy’s knees.

The Bully collapsed on the floor in a groaning heap.

Young Sherlock poked him with a shoe. “I told you to leave me alone,” he said, heart pounding and heart soaring all at once.

“You _freak_!” gasped the Bully, shamefaced, on the verge of humiliated tears, and nursing one arm.

His backup took up the words as their rallying cry.

Two minutes and nine seconds later, one had crumpled with his arse in the air, another was curled up in agony after unintentionally attempting a full split as Young Sherlock knocked his feet from under him, the third was massaging his head and wailing (having just run straight into a wall), and their leader was staring in open horror at Young Sherlock, who had acquired his fifth bloody nose and first victory.

Young Sherlock, for his part, picked up his book and dusted off the cover. He looked down at his would-be tormenter, and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve. “Are we clear?” he said coolly.

“F-freak!” cried the boy again, who seemed to have forgotten the rest of the English language.

Young Sherlock turned, and walked away, no longer trying to hide the smile on his face, which was so wide that it hurt.

Young Sherlock was always the freak after this.

But he somehow didn’t mind anymore.

Over time, Young Sherlock became the Detective.

The Detective knew how to handle himself in fights. He brought down more than a few would-be fleeing criminals with a well-placed punch or kick. The Detective didn’t need help. Alone was much more efficient. Alone protected him. Alone protected everyone.

He didn’t need anyone.

He didn’t need anyone.

_He didn’t need anyone._

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock tasted blood.

His eyes opened, and swiftly closed of their own accord.

He opened his eyes again, with considerable difficulty, and forced them to stay open.

The room turned in an unnatural but not wholly unfamiliar vertigo, and Sherlock promptly shut his eyes and dragged his mind back bit by bit from the inky black of empty unconsciousness.

 It was so rare that he had thoughtless sleep. Usually the only way he ever managed to get even a fleeting moment of mental quiet was if he was high on something—

Sherlock sat bolt upright and lurched to a dead stop as his wrists, handcuffed behind his back, slammed into the wooden beam they were chained around.

“Ah,” he said, and his voice scratched as if he’d recently cleaned his throat with sandpaper.

His body ached, joints and muscles feeling strained or sluggish and unresponsive, but worst of all was his mind. It was _slow_ , and while there were times in Sherlock’s life when that was desirable, now it was like his thoughts were trying to get to him through molasses, and he didn’t have the time for such nonsense.

He forced himself to go through the basics. He checked his physical condition over, running simple diagnostics such as wiggling his fingers or blinking at a certain rate. He reviewed his memory. His thinking time. He pushed himself until he could feel the drug leaving his system like water draining from a clogged drain. Sherlock had considerable experience with ‘substances’ (for lack of a better word) and had a rather impressive tolerance, but this drug was difficult to shake quickly, even for him. Mirazolam, he thought. Fast-acting sedative, usually administered intravenously. Small doses, almost instantaneous results. Limited, tedious side effects. That was definitely it.

Sherlock spat on the ground.

He estimated he’d been unconscious for between five and seven hours, judging from how stiff he was. Sherlock sat, taking in his surroundings and regaining some control over his body. Attempting to develop something along the lines of a plan. He could feel some dried blood on the side of his head where it had smacked the ground the previous night. The room he was in was a rough basement, with cement walls, wooden support beams here and there, and a cheap linoleum floor. There was some sparse and useless furniture, and no windows or exits. His hands were handcuffed behind his back to what had to be one of the supporting beams for the ceiling. His phone had been removed from his pocket. There was a distant rumbling of cars and street traffic outside, so faint that Sherlock knew no one outside would hear if he made a racket. He was alone.

Beyond that, there was little of interest in the room.

Time passed. An hour, by his estimation.

… Well. This was boring.

Clearing his throat with a few coughs, Sherlock raised his voice to a rough shout and yelled, “FOR THOSE INTERESTED, I AM AWAKE!”

After ten minutes had passed with no one coming to visit him, Sherlock decided there was no point in sitting around. He found himself infinitely more interested in straining to reach his pocket, where lockpicks had been sewn into the seam. After quite some time had passed, he pulled the last binding thread out of the seam in his sleeve, and the lockpicks finally dropped into his hand. In nineteen seconds (not his fastest, but then, he _had_ been drugged), the cuffs popped open.

Sherlock brought his hands around to his front, massaging his wrists. They were raw from the hours he’d spent slumped, unconscious, but it could have been worse. He tentatively tried to stand, and the floor pitched under his feet. He stayed down.

Marvelous. Just what he needed. Further complications.

Suddenly, there were footsteps in the hallway. Sherlock put his arms back as if he was still trapped, and drooped his head in a semblance of unconsciousness.

The door opened—not locked, he noted—and the footsteps entered the room. A few more steps and Sherlock recognized them (by means of a telltale limp he knew he’d given them) as one of the men who had attacked him earlier.

The man stopped in front of Sherlock, mostly likely checking to see if Sherlock was awake.

Sherlock waited a long second, and then he lunged. Sherlock didn’t need to have his eyes open in order to know where to strike; he could deduce enough from his footsteps. He knew the man was peering at him, a little too close, and as Sherlock’s eyes opened he grabbed the man by the shirt collar and heaved down so hard that the man’s head slammed into the beam that Sherlock was supposed to be bound to, bashing his skull into the wood just over Sherlock’s head. The man’s muscled arm smacked Sherlock’s face, a black lotus flower tattooed on his wrist.

There was a satisfying thud, and the man slumped on top of Sherlock with a groan.

Sherlock couldn’t help but think of John grabbing him by the scarf and slamming his head into the lid of a coffin. The same principle worked well here. People tended to value their heads. And Sherlock knew well enough how effective a solid hit could be.

Grimacing, Sherlock kicked the man’s limp form off himself and searched him for anything of use.

There was, disappointingly, nothing. Honestly, a little pathetic.

He shifted, easing to his feet, and he crept towards the open door, wincing with every movement as the floor seemed to sway and his muscles burned in protest. It took an entire minute to cross the room, and then Sherlock peered around the edge of the door.

Before him stretched a hallway. At the end of it, he could see a flight of stairs leading to the ground floor. If he could see upstairs, he might be able to deduce an approximate location. If he could get upstairs, he could determine a near-exact location. If he could get upstairs undetected, he could get out and get back to 221B.

John was – possibly wondering where he was by now.

Sherlock listened intently. The hallway around him was silent. He took one step into the hallway. Two steps. Three. When he met no opposition, he hurried towards the stairs as fast as his body could carry him.

The stairs at the top were lit with natural light. Daylight. Judging from the direction of the shadows, the sun was to the right of the building.

Sherlock’s body had not fought him this much in a long time. He climbed the stairs as best he could, and as quietly as he could, but the effort felt nearly impossible.

Then the fourth stair from the bottom creaked under his foot.

In almost no time at all, there was noise at Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock seized the railing of the stairs just as a hand grabbed at his shoe, and he kicked out, foot connecting with something solid behind him. There was a grunt of pain, as the newcomer behind him tumbled back down the stairs. Sherlock surged ahead, and reached the top stair just long enough to see out a cluttered shop window before he was tackled around the middle with such force that he and his attacker nearly fell back down the stairs.

Sherlock jerked a knee hard into someone’s stomach, but then hands were grabbing at his arms. A fist—from where, he wasn’t even sure—connected with his face. Wiry arms looped around his and hauled him backwards down the stairs.

They were all infuriatingly well trained. And he was still getting over being thrown about and drugged the first time. Not to make excuses, of course. However—

The person dragging him back down the stairs reached the bottom and dropped him, and Sherlock reflexively rolled to his feet and knocked them flat on their back.

They had a black lotus tattoo on their neck.

Sherlock turned, and a fist collided with his side, in an expert jab. His unsteady footing couldn’t withstand the cloying pull of gravity, and Sherlock fell. Rather spectacularly.

This person had a black lotus tattoo on their ankle.

Sherlock’s mind raced to put together details before the inevitable void of unconsciousness, and really, he couldn’t have been more annoyed about the entire thing if he’d tried.

It was the kick to the head he received as soon as he hit the floor that decided the matter for him, and the world winked out of view.

_Not again_ , he thought in exasperation, before he slipped into the abyss.

 

~o~O~o~

 

It was a web.

He had known Moriarty was an empire, but it was even more incredible than that. And now he was sure of it. It was the only way they could be linked to an underground foreign gang like these Black Lotus, a serial killer cab driver, and the murder of an informant and a doctor and who knew how many others in places like Afghanistan where no one would think it strange if someone was blown up. It was barely conceivable, to the normal mind, that anyone could use these things to hide a terrorist threat in the very heart of London with such apparent _ease_.

It was more than an empire, based on a simple chain of command or a common interest.

It was a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads. Each thread so delicate and interlocked with the rest that it would be almost impossible to trace them all back to the heart at the center.

And Moriarty, whoever they were, knew precisely how each and every single one of them would dance.

 

~o~O~o~

 

“Wake up.”

Sherlock’s eyelids twitched, and he reflexively refused to comply.

Normally, his physical state wasn’t of much interest, but Sherlock couldn’t help but note that everything—and he meant _everything_ — _hurt_. He was almost impressed.

A foot poked him gruffly. “Wake up,” the speaker demanded again. Male. Middle-aged. Anxious.

Sherlock took stock. His hands were cuffed around a beam and behind his back yet again, just as before, so that he was essentially rendered immobile. He no longer had his coat on. The mental and physical sluggishness, aching muscles, and sore head from earlier had been joined by an entourage of unwelcome pains. Sherlock knew it had to be several hours since his attempted escape, judging from the amount of pain and the state of his now bloodied nose and everything else.

He couldn’t think of a situation during a case when he’d been _this_ stuck, but he’d be fine. He was always fine.

The use of brute force and violence as a means of persuasion and intimidation might work with other, _normal_ people, but Sherlock found it all rather – juvenile. He might even say he was disappointed. Surely Moriarty was capable of deploying a better class of thug. Though Sherlock wondered if these people weren’t normally in the ‘thug’ business.

With some effort, he opened his eyes, and raised his head enough to look up.

One of the men from earlier (the one who had tackled him, he suspected—a husky and rather shifty looking man now sporting a split lip and a black eye, Sherlock was pleased to note) was standing over him.

“Unless you’ve brought me coffee or a cigarette, I’d advise you to move back out of my reach before I break your nose,” said Sherlock, in a painfully civil (and hoarse) tone.

“Shan’ll speak with you,” said the man flatly. London native. Maybe a banker, judging by his nose and fingertips.

Who was ‘Shan’ supposed to be?

Sherlock shrugged as much as was possible with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Should I care?”

“Yeah, you damn well should.”

“… No, no, you know, I really don’t,” said Sherlock. “You’ll have to excuse me if the prospect of dealing with more of you doesn’t thrill me.”

“Well, she’s not happy with you. Not after all the fuss you’ve caused us. Caused her. Caused our employer.” The man leaned down to look Sherlock in the eye threateningly, and Sherlock spat in his face. He recoiled with a yelp of disgust.

“Still not learned your lesson?” asked the man, fists clenching. Definitely a London native. Lots of travel. Left-handed. A twinge of fear in his eyes every time he said ‘employer’. So, a recent recruit of some kind. Not trained in combat. Just an easily-intimidated, greedy moron.

Sherlock sighed and swung his leg up, fast and hard, in a high kick that made his muscles scream, so that his foot just connected with the man’s abdomen.

The man fell flat on his back with a yell, and Sherlock coughed.

He was beginning to look as shit as he felt, but that had never caused him to hold back before. He wasn’t about to start now.

His aggressor, wheezing, rolled to his side and got clumsily to his feet, looking at Sherlock with undisguised loathing. “You’re dumber than I thought you’d be. Our employer has a much higher opinion of you than you deserve.”

Sherlock picked up on the grammar. Has, suggesting singular. One person. Interest piqued again in the back of his mind, distracting from pain and instead creating a steady thrum of excitement that increased. Slowly. Too slowly. It didn’t help that he had to continuously shut down the parts of his mind that were exclaiming over how incredibly not good he felt on a physical level. How long had he been unconscious? Everything, his head included, felt battered beyond all reason.

“I’m flattered. You lot, of course, have met my expectations. Exactly as stupid as I—“

The man drew back a fist, but a cold voice rang out behind him. “Enough.”

The voice was familiar.

Sherlock sat up a little straighter.

An older woman—the same woman, Sherlock knew instantly, who had first attacked him on the street however long ago it was now—stood in the doorway. Her lackey gave her one look and exited at top speed, getting out of her way.

Once it was only herself and Sherlock left in the room, the woman spoke. “Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I am Sh—“

“Shan,” finished Sherlock, and he purposefully made the effort to sound bored. “I know. And I know we met earlier.”

Shan paused, and regarded Sherlock intently. “Yes. You have a good memory.”

Sherlock offered her a withering glare. “My work rather depends on it. Getting knocked down and knocked out isn’t enough to change that. I don’t think you’d have bothered to drag me here for a chat if you didn’t know I had a problematically good memory. Don’t patronize me. It’s insulting. You know who I am. I know who you are. We can forego the formalities. Why am I here?”

“You know nothing of us,” objected Shan calmly. “You have a good memory, Mr. Holmes, in spite of your current condition, but you are still ignorant.”

“My _current condition_ , as you say, is really rather your fault,” said Sherlock tersely. “Ignorant, however, is something that I rarely am. I repeat: why am I here?”

“You ask too many questions. Make too many inquiries. We—and our employer—have found it necessary to prevent you from continuing to do what is so clearly foolish. Your investigations must cease. We hope you understand what is meant by this.”

Sherlock tilted his head, disregarding the threat. “Are you telling me you plan on _keeping_ me here?”

“We may,” said Shan.

“Keep me here or kill me, then,” said Sherlock, and he raised an eyebrow. “Or scare me.”

“We have learned you do not scare easily.”

“No, I don’t,” said Sherlock, smiling thinly.

“We have learned a great deal about you,” said Shan coldly. “While you seek us out, we have sought you out. And learned far more than you have learned.”

Sherlock snorted. “I find that hard to believe.”

“And yet.” Shan paced a few steps closer. She was a small woman, but Sherlock could see hard lines in her face and a strength to her hands that said she had seen hard times. Long, hard, painful times. Maybe Moriarty had bought her allegiance, and thus the allegiance of her people, with escape from that hard life.

Sherlock met her gaze evenly. “And yet you insist on maintaining the delusion that I don’t know we are in Soho—Gerrard Street, in particular, I’m willing to bet—in some shop basement out of which you and your gang of lotus-marked criminals augment the wealth and anonymity of Moriarty.”

Shan paled, and Sherlock smirked.

“It’s not hard. The intervals of buses driving past, with the deeper, slower rumbling and the sound of the doors opening and closing, and the view from the stairs of this charming little prison, are sufficient for determining our location. Your people, meanwhile, do nothing to hide their identifying tattoos. And their source of work. If your goal is to hide Moriarty from people like me, you’re really doing a terrible job. I barely start digging around in Moriarty’s business, and you all immediately panic and drag me in here to threaten me into silence. So then. Are you intentionally stupid or do you only now realize how dumb you all seem to me? Tell me this wasn’t Moriarty’s idea. I’m underwhelmed.”

“Do not cross us, Mr. Holmes,” said Shan unkindly, her voice gaining a cautionary sharpness. “You are here, alone, with no hope of rescue. You might be the famous Detective, but you are out of luck.”

Sherlock sat up a little straighter so he could be sure she saw his indignant expression. “I have never once relied on _luck_ to get me anywhere. Perspicacity and reason are the tools I rely on. Not _chance_. Don’t be _stupid_.”

To her credit, the woman didn’t visibly look annoyed, but Sherlock could hear it in her voice. “It does not matter. I doubt cleverness is going to help you much here.”

“You underestimate me,” said Sherlock coldly.

“But our – employer does not,” answered Shan, finally smiling a little.

Employer. Employer, _singular_. So definitely one person. Might as well try to find out more.

“And when do I get to speak to him? Your employer,” demanded Sherlock, eyes narrowing, choosing his words with care.

“I act on his behalf,” said Shan coldly. “It is, as I am sure you understand, of the utmost importance to him that his identity remains uncompromised.”

“That’s your job, is it?” asked Sherlock, even as he silently triumphed over ‘his’. Any progress was good progress when he was this distracted. And stuck. Sherlock continued, “He gets you and your people into London, and in exchange you get to do his dirty work and deal with people who get in too deep. Like me. He brought the Black Lotus to London, and you pay him back by helping to keep his identity a secret. You’ve been watching me, then. He warned you about me, and you thought you’d just cut the head off the snake and save him the worry.”

Shan’s silence was enough confirmation.

Sherlock sat back, head leaning against the pole he was handcuffed to. “Not doing a very good job, are you?”

The woman’s face was impassive, but Sherlock could see the faintest flicker of fear in her eyes. He had her. He had her and she knew it, even if she would never admit it.

“Good try, Mr. Holmes,” she said, voice clipped. “But you have nothing.”

“But we both know that’s not true, is it,” replied Sherlock. “You wouldn’t be in here talking to me if I had nothing. Your hideout here, the people who came in here to ‘intimidate’ me—“ Sherlock took care to stress the ridiculousness of this concept “—and even you. You’re telling me everything and you don’t even realize it. You just know every second you have me here is another second you’re making mistakes. You might as well put me in contact with Moriarty right now. I’m sure he and I are both dying to have a chat.”

He’d just opened the door for her, never mind that he didn’t yet know what lay beyond. The Game was on, and Moriarty’s pawns were charging like idiots down the pitch. The Game was in check, and Sherlock wanted to make it checkmate so badly he could taste it.

The silent alarm in his mind went off—a bright flashing red light, a warning sign—but Sherlock ignored it. He knew he was already on the knife’s edge, knew that one wrong step now and he’d be found days from now in a gutter with his throat slit, but he couldn’t stop. This was it. This was the rush of the case. That all-consuming need to know. And he was so close. It was _so close_ —

Shan lashed out, seizing hold of his chin to turn his face up to her, fingernails digging into his skin. Her face was tight, cold, threatening, but that fear in her expression had become much more real in the space of only a few seconds. “You talk big, but you know if you cross us further, you die. The Black Lotus Tong is protected. He has influence you cannot imagine. Even someone like you must understand what will happen if you continue, Mr. Holmes. You are _afraid_ ,” she hissed.

“You know I’m not,” said Sherlock.

“You presume too much,” she said, but Sherlock interrupted.

“You _know_ I’m not. And I know what I’m talking about,” he said. “I’ve seen enough and your people have told me a good deal more. And I think we’re both intelligent enough to know that Moriarty’s not going to forgive you for letting anything slip. That’s right,” he said, as Shan’s eyes widened imperceptibly. “You’ve given away that much. His ruthlessness.”

Sherlock held Shan’s gaze. “You knew I was a threat the moment I started making genuine, informed inquiries about the pieces of Moriarty’s little empire, so you brought me in to scare me into silence. But that isn’t going to work. You know that now. Your gamble won’t pay off. Killing me will bring the whole of Scotland Yard and quite possibly the whole of England down on your heads, and you’ll all die. I get the feeling you won’t be able to hide from Moriarty. So, your best chance is to _work with me_. I can get you a deal. One that can truly protect you and the people you lead. Tell me everything, and I don’t have to die, you don’t have to die, and your people of the Black Lotus don’t have to die. I doubt Moriarty will be quite so generous.” Sherlock stared into Shan’s eyes with enough intensity for her to believe every word. “I can help you,” he said. “If you work with me.”

Shan’s fingers dug into his face, and then she released him.

Her fear was sharp, cold, and absolute. “You know too much,” she said, and she took a few steps back.

Her footsteps echoed in empty corridors in his head that were suddenly filled with a frigid, hollow wind. It made his blood run cold. He’d played his hand. The question now was if her fear of Moriarty would save him or kill him.

“He informed us that you are dangerous,” said Shan slowly, swallowing. “He knows what you are capable of. _All_ that you are capable of.”

Sherlock’s heart missed a beat. Missed several. Quite possibly stopped. The Detective forced himself to breathe.

Not all. Not _all_.

No one knew _all_ that he was capable of. No one. Not even Moriarty.

Shan stepped to the door, still looking at him, and Sherlock thought they could each read one another’s fear now.

“And dangerous people are a liability we cannot afford. That he cannot afford,” said Shan. One more step backwards brought her over the threshold and into the hall.

“You should have known to stay away, Mr. Holmes,” said Shan. “I regret to inform you that you will not have the chance to correct your mistake. I will give you ten minutes to prepare yourself as best you can. Then you die.”

She slammed the door, and Sherlock could feel it reverberating through the air and in his very bones.

Her footsteps faded down the hall.

“Shit,” breathed Sherlock, and he shoved hard against the floor with his feet, hauling himself upright even as the effort made his stomach lurch. “Shit, shit, shit…”

He strained hopelessly against the cuffs around his wrists, contorting in every imaginable way in the hopes of slipping his hands out, so that he might have some way of defending himself. But the handcuffs were tight and unyielding, the metal biting into his skin, he was pulling so hard. Blood. If he didn’t have nine minutes and twenty-one seconds remaining to save himself from dying, he might care.

Sherlock tilted his head back slightly, and it hit the support beam he was tied to with a dull thunk.

“Do not panic,” he hissed, closing his eyes and forcing his breathing to even out. “ _Do not panic._ Think _. Think. THINK_.”

Sherlock’s Mind Palace lit up like a fireworks display, and he cast the glowing net wide. His dungeon became a room so vivid in his mind that he was free to walk around and examine, scouring every inch for some means of escape. The adrenaline rush was better than any drug or illicit substance he might have encountered in his thirty-three years, ten months, two days, four hours, and thirty-five minutes of life. Epinephrine and norepinephrine stimulated basic, instinctual chemical reactions within the brain that made his heart pound and his muscles shake and his mind fly from thought to thought so fast that he forgot to breathe. The threat of imminent, impending death was a more effective rush than cocaine.

Eight minutes, fifty-seven seconds.

Sherlock strained harder, feet pressed against the beam at his back, the full weight of his body now employed in escaping the handcuffs.

Sherlock’s bloody wrists bled and his muscles trembled with exertion. But even as he did so, Sherlock understood he was more likely to rip off his hands than break the chain, with such insufficient torque and no momentum. He stopped, breathing hard.

Lockpicks by door. Too far away. Out of reach. They’d been smart in taking them from him, or he’d already be free again. No chance of reaching them. No other weapons available. Screaming held some potential, but also could accelerate his coming death.

Desperate measure only. He wasn’t going to die. He wasn’t going to die.

Death, for something that he dealt with almost every day, suddenly seemed very real and utterly alien.

He wasn’t going to die. He couldn’t die. He _would not_ die.

Seven minutes, six seconds.

He needed to find some way to get free.

Seven minutes, four seconds.

He needed something to get free.

Seven minutes, one second.

He needed something.

Six minutes, fifty-nine seconds.

He needed.

Six minutes, fifty-six seconds.

He—

Sherlock yelled in frustration and sank to the ground.

Fear welled up like floodwaters in his mind, and doors in his Mind Palace automatically closed to contain it, to shut down those responses. Fear was a chemical reaction. He could control chemistry. The sensation of blood dripping from his wrists became more pronounced, and he immediately deleted it—deleted every trace of the sensation, the pain, the memory.

He struggled again.

Six minutes, forty-nine seconds.

His mind turned him in the direction of failsafes.

If escape was beyond him now, he had to find some way of making sure he was either able to survive any attack, or pass on information about his death to others who might—permitted their intelligence was not entirely lacking—be able to put two and two together.

Protecting himself was pretty much out of the question. He could struggle and resist, but there would be no way to stop someone opening the door and shooting him in the head. So his only real option was to leave a message for those who would come looking for him. But his phone was gone. He had no writing implements.

But there was blood on his wrists.

Sherlock’s fingers—were they shaking? He couldn’t possibly be shaking. He most certainly was not shaking—twisted around to touch it. He strained, reaching long fingers strengthened from decades of playing the violin until he could scrawl letters in blood on the skin of his arm just below the sleeve. His captors, in a hurry to dispose of his body later without being seen, might not notice. But the police would. Forensics would. Oh God, if Anderson was the technician who happened to be working on solving _his_ murder, he might be sick—

No, no, no, no, _NO_. No thinking like that. No thinking like that.

Five minutes, fifty-eight seconds.

Sherlock wrote on his arm:

 

M=1 man

BLACK LOTUS

 

As soon as he finished, Sherlock waited a full ten seconds (the time moving so slow, just _wasted_ seconds, that he almost screamed) to make sure the writing was dry before he let his coat sleeve fall again.

Five minutes, forty-two seconds.

The fear was bubbling up once more, clawing at his throat—raw, uncontrollable, _human_ fear—and he shut it down again.

Alone was supposed to be good, yes? Alone protected him. Alone meant control. Alone meant no one else had to die in five minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Just him. Stupidly. Infuriatingly. Inevitably.

Sherlock yelled in frustration again, just to give the fear somewhere to go that wasn’t in his own head.

There were noises in the hall.

If they came close enough when they came to kill him, he could disarm a single opponent without the use of his hands. If it was a close range, execution-style kill, he might be able to. If he could at least come into direct contact, there could be potential for DNA evidence. A hair. Skin. Saliva. Sweat. He had to attack. He just had to get close enough to get in a hit of his own. A good hit.

Five minutes, one second.

Five minutes.

Four minutes, fifty-ni—

_BANG_.

The sound was so loud, and so unexpected, that Sherlock jerked. He sat bolt upright, heart hammering so loudly in his ears that he almost couldn’t hear anything.

The noise had come from the hall. Gunfire. He was certain it had been gunfire.

There was no way. There was no way he had been found.

He waited, holding his breath.

Then Shan’s voice, just audible on the other side of the door. “Do not question me again. Kill him and follow,” she said. “We cannot allow any witnesses. He will understand why we had to kill Holmes.”

Sherlock could hear the response—a short, harsh affirmative—and then footsteps retreating quickly down the hall. Shan, leaving. They were going to kill him and leave his body here. Their location had to have been compromised, it was the only explanation. So someone was here. Lestrade, maybe, or even—

But keys were rattling in the lock on the other side of the door.

There was another loud BANG, a thud, and then several close shots fired. Someone screamed far away down the hall.

Silence.

Sherlock waited. But there was nothing. He heaved desperately against the handcuffs one more time, before a bullet rang out just beyond the door and punched a hole through the wood, dislodging the lock. Sherlock froze.

The door crashed in, and a solitary figure pushed the door open with one shoulder.

Sherlock stared.

John stood in the doorway.

He held a gun down low in both hands, fingers set in a practiced grip. A bulletproof vest covered up much of a hooded jacket. John’s eyes flew around the room, and found Sherlock.

Walls crumbled in Sherlock’s mind. Small, carefully organized and pristine rooms collapsed, caved, and reassembled. A new room opened up, followed by more, which joined, reorganized, expanded, and filled. And in the center of it all was the man now standing in the doorway with a gun and the obnoxious ghost of a relieved smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

John’s hands were steady—improbably steady. Acclimatized to violence. More than just a doctor while in Afghanistan, and not just some marksman or a crack shot either. A fighter.

Someone with nerves of steel.

A full second passed.

 Sherlock opened his mouth, and what tumbled out somehow managed to cling to what remained of his usual stubbornness. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?” he demanded furiously.

John froze on the spot and glared at him. “Are—I’m rescuing you, you dickhead.”

“Is that completely necessary?” asked Sherlock cheekily, and he was slightly appalled at the reassurance flooding his veins so fast that it made his chest ache. 

“You _complete_ dickhead,” said John, and if his relief at the sight of Sherlock, bloody and bruised as he was, hadn’t been so overwhelming, he might have laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: excuse me is that seriously the best greeting you can come up with  
> John: dickhead  
> Sherlock: you could at least try to come up with something original  
> John: dickhead  
> Sherlock: or something intelligent  
> John: dickhead  
> Sherlock: shut up john  
> John: dickhead
> 
> As previously stated, this chapter was really tricky for me. Lots of fun, but tricky. Plus, these chapters keep getting longer, and longer, and longer... Sorry?  
> Anyway, IT'S ABOUT TIME JOHN TURNED UP TO SAVE THE DAY, JEEZ  
> Now, of course, they need to get out of there...  
> I really wanted this to be a chance for Sherlock to gain a little insight into Moriarty's little network of evil, and also establish a good, solid reason for John to venture out of 221B in spite of Sherlock's instructions to stay put. Sherlock knows John is skilled and capable, but knowing and _knowing_ are two very different things. Sherlock is used to going solo, and getting himself out of difficult spots, but there are times when you just really, really need some good backup. A lesson Sherlock really ought to learn, y'know?
> 
> Plus, I wanted to explore something a little new and a little terrifying - namely, Sherlock actually feeling fear.  
> Now, this chapter does leave some things unexplained (some of Sherlock's findings, some of Sherlock's actions, etc.) -- they'll be explained soon enough, fear not.
> 
> I'm back to school (for my final semester as an undergraduate -- AHHHHHH), but I'm not anticipating any major delays. Fingers crossed we keep roaring right along!
> 
> Also, on a little sidenote, I've plotted most of this story out, and it's looking like it'll be somewhere between 35 and 45 chapters of variable length. Hopefully you won't all be too sick of it by the end... I'm having fun, at least. XD
> 
> To those of you reading - thanks! And to those of you who kudos and comment and so on, thank you thank you thank you! It means so so much to me :3 <3


	16. The Bastard with the Umbrella

“Excuse me?” said Sherlock indignantly, voice rasping.

“You heard me,” said John, voice tinged with both relief and fury, walking into the room, giving the four walls a sweeping glance. He checked over his shoulder, looking back down the hall to find it empty for the time being, and then hurried over to Sherlock and crouched down at his side.

“Are you honestly going to yell at me?” said Sherlock. “Now?”

“No, I’m…” John didn’t finish the sentence, instead looking at Sherlock. He could see the injuries and every single one made him wince. If they had the time, he would do something about them now. But John knew what it was like to try to be a doctor in a place where bullets flying overhead was normal, and he knew when it was essential to stop and get to work and when it was essential to grab each other and run like hell first.

Now was the time to run. He just—wasn’t sure how they were going to do that.

Sherlock could see John’s hesitation, and instantly understood why.

“Tell me there are other people with you,” he said flatly, for once willing to let Lestrade and his pack of idiots see him in a difficult position, if it meant not dying and not seeing John drop dead at his feet trying to help. “People who won’t die on contact.”

“There are,” said John thoughtfully, moving around to Sherlock’s back and examining the handcuffs, staying back and not touching anything. He kept instinctively reaching to try to do something, twitching his hands back at the last second so he didn’t touch Sherlock. “But they’re busy covering our arses right now, so I’m going to have to be good enough.”

“You can’t even touch me, moron,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, thank you, I know that. Does that apply to any contact, or just skin-on-skin? Like, you could poke me if you were wearing gloves, right?”

Hesitantly, Sherlock said, “To my knowledge.”

“Okay.” John stood up. “Don’t move,” he ordered, and before there was time to think, there was a deafening BANG at Sherlock’s back that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Sherlock’s arms fell forward and he growled in discomfort.

John had shot the handcuff chain to break it.

Sherlock’s wrists were more of a mess than he’d predicted. He looked at them, expression dark to disguise a grimace, letting the blood flow in his arms and hands return to normal.

“Move your arms slowly,” instructed John. “If you go too fast, it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot more.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead bracing himself and dragging his body up, to his knees and then to his feet.

“Easy does it,” cautioned John, and Sherlock was prevented from snapping at him by the need for concentration. He hurt so much more now than he had a few hours ago when he’d tried to escape…

“Can you walk?” asked John.

“Of course I can,” replied Sherlock derisively, and he pushed himself forward to take a step.

For a second, he thought his foot might have just fallen through the floor, because suddenly he was pitching forward. The sight of John instinctively moving forward to catch him was the only impetus capable of making him catch his footing, and he half-fell back away from John and snapped, “Stop, you can’t touch me, you idiot!”

John quickly drew back his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “But I don’t think you can actually walk.”

“Perhaps not right this minute, no,” admitted Sherlock, straightening up as much as possible with the beam at his back keeping him upright. “I just need time.”

“We don’t exactly have a lot of that, mate,” said John, and Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“I _know_ ,” he said, shutting his eyes for a second. Every now and then there was a gunshot somewhere in the building. So, John wasn’t alone entirely. Lestrade, surely, was here as well.

“I’ve planned on how to get you out of here,” said John. “Just tell me when you’re ready, okay?”

Sherlock leaned his head back and opened his eyes, determined to stay on his feet. “All right, I’ll wait here while you—“

“Now it’s _your_ turn to shut up,” interrupted John, pulling up the hood on his jacket, and without much at all in the way of warning, he stepped close to Sherlock’s side. “Arm over my shoulders,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock balked. “No,” he said loudly. “No, absolutely not.”

John sighed. “We don’t have time to stand around, and we can’t stay here. There’s nothing we can use if we need to take cover, and even if we managed anyway, then we’re still just sitting around in the exact place where they’re going to be looking for you. If you take care to only touch my jacket, I’m sure we’re fine. So let’s _go_.”

John’s nonchalance about this was almost horrifying. But Sherlock could see an authoritative hardness in his expression, and a complete lack of visible fear.

“One wrong move…” started Sherlock. “One false step or one surprise attack, and you’re dead. I’m not doing it.”

“Sherlock, _please_ ,” said John. “I know what I’m doing.”

In truth, John wasn’t sure he knew what he was doing. He’d come prepared—at least, as prepared as he could be—to move Sherlock, whatever condition they found him in, but he had no idea if it was possible to get out of this.

And yet, John was used to situations like this. His head was perfectly clear, and for the first time since Sherlock had woken him up in that morgue, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

When Sherlock didn’t move, John said, “Trust me. I wouldn’t be here unless I knew the risks and didn’t think much of them. I told you I can help. So let me help.”

Sherlock looked at John, and took a deep breath. “I want to make it known that if you die, I’m never going to forgive you,” he said tightly.

John smiled grimly. “That’s the spirit.” He ducked so Sherlock wouldn’t have to lift his arm much to get situated. “Let’s go.”

Sherlock put his arm over John’s shoulders tentatively, and John stood up. The hood on John’s jacket meant Sherlock couldn’t accidentally bump John’s head or neck as they walked, so the only real concerns were John’s hands and face. John was a good six or seven inches shorter than Sherlock was, so it was practically the ideal height, but Sherlock was nevertheless barely leaning on him, fist clenched tightly and arm ramrod straight so he couldn’t grab on.

John could tell, but he didn’t comment. He put his right arm around Sherlock’s side, and kept his gun in his left. “Move at whatever pace you can manage, and we’ll head for the stairs,” he said.

Sherlock started them forward at an infuriatingly slow pace. Every time he tried to speed up, his muscles protested too much to ignore. He grit his teeth and kept going, pausing only when they reached the door of the room.

There was a person on the floor on the other side. Sherlock suspected they were dead. Sherlock also suspected they had been the Black Lotus member charged with killing him for Shan.

But John had killed them, instead.

So they couldn’t kill him.

“Should interrogate him,” said Sherlock. He could bring them back. It wasn’t permanent death, not quite yet. That knowledge made the fact that John had apparently shot someone for him feel a little less real.

“That can wait,” said John. Sherlock was leaning on him more and more and he had no intention of stopping for a chat with someone he’d had to shoot a few minutes ago. “You’ll have time later. But I don’t want to wait for his backup.”

“Why, can’t you take them?”

“I’d rather not have to,” replied John, glancing at him pointedly. “And if I do have to, I might drop you.”

“Don’t you dare.”

John snorted. “Then let’s go. Ready?”

“Stop asking stupid questions,” said Sherlock, and he started them forward again, stepping into the hall cautiously.

There was another gunshot overhead.

“Sounds like Lestrade has his hands full,” commented Sherlock, speaking quietly in the emptiness of the hallway.

“He did,” confirmed John. “Which is why I’m here and the rest of them are up there making sure none of your kidnappers come to finish us off.”

“Wonderful,” said Sherlock, just as there was the sound of a door flying open behind them.

Before Sherlock could even begin to speak, John pivoted on his heel and half-turned, gun arm raised.

Sherlock’s clenched fist was suddenly so close to John’s face that he could feel hot air on his skin as John exhaled.

“Drop it!” John yelled at their oncoming attacker.

Sherlock could see them over his shoulder, and knew the other man was one of the Black Lotus, and was armed. The Black Lotus fighter raised his gun, fast, aiming right at John, but John was faster—he fired twice, hitting the man in the hand so that he dropped the gun with a yell, and then in the foot so that he just dropped.

Sherlock moved his hand away from John’s face, and he and John both shifted positions slightly as John turned back around. “Not a terrible shot,” said Sherlock, and John had to remind himself Sherlock was injured so he didn’t elbow him.

“It’ll do,” said John, starting forward again.

Sherlock stumbled, but John kept him upright, and Sherlock pretended it had never happened. “Civilians aren’t supposed to have guns,” he said finally.

“Not a civilian.”

“You are now.”

“Technically, I’ve never been discharged.”

“Technically,” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, both at John’s argument and the fact that they could have this conversation here of all places, “you died. So.”

“So does the rule apply to dead civilians?” asked John.

Sherlock glanced at him. “You’re not dead. Not anymore.”

John sighed. “Do you have a problem with me having a gun?” he asked, just as the man he’d just disarmed groaned loudly behind them.

“No, not particularly,” said Sherlock. “I just thought I’d inform you.”

“Thanks ever so.”

“No problem.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs in seconds, just in time for loud and hurrying footsteps to sound on the steps.

Sherlock and John both froze. “Shit,” said John, backing up a step and bringing Sherlock with him. He raised his gun to his chest, doing his best to be ready to move while still keeping Sherlock standing, and as soon as the newcomer was mostly in view, John leveled the gun, before immediately lowering it with an exhale of relief. “ _Christ_ , Greg.”

“Greg?” said Sherlock blankly, as Lestrade hurried down the last couple steps and looked around at them both.

“Yeah, Greg,” snapped Lestrade in exasperation, before he processed Sherlock’s appearance. He gaped. “Blimey, Sherlock, you look like death.”

“Think about who you’re talking to, think about what you said, and then think about how you should never say something that stupid again,” said Sherlock, wanting to stop using John for support now that there was a witness but unable to amass the necessary strength. 

Lestrade shot Sherlock a look, but could clearly grasp this wasn’t the time to call Sherlock out. “We’ve nearly cleared the area,” he said instead.

“Have you found an older woman anywhere?” said Sherlock swiftly. “Chinese. Short. Appears to be in charge.”

“Uh, not that I can think of, but…”

“If your people find her, you have to try to catch her. Alive, and unhurt,” Sherlock continued. “She may know Moriarty by more than just the hint of a name. I need to talk to her. She might be willing to help us, given the right persuasion or the right price.”

“We can search,” offered Lestrade.

Sherlock nodded. “I can assist—“

“No, actually, no, you can’t,” interrupted John, and Sherlock turned his head to shoot a glare at him. “We need to get you out of here,” John went on, matching Sherlock’s glare, before turning away from Sherlock altogether to look at Lestrade. “Sorry, Greg, but can you…?”

To Sherlock’s horror, Lestrade nodded, and stepped to Sherlock’s other side. He cautiously pulled Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders, and John, gingerly, stepped away, Sherlock’s arm dropping to his side.

“What are you doing?” demanded Sherlock, of Lestrade and then of John, as John lowered the hood of his jacket and adjusted his grip on his gun back to two hands. He looked at Lestrade furiously.  “What is he doing?”

“He’s a better shot than I am,” said Lestrade defensively, by way of explanation, as John shrugged. “I’ll help you walk, and he can give us cover.”

“Look, I don’t _need_ _anyone’s_ help,” started Sherlock petulantly. He made to shrug away from Lestrade, but he stopped dead at the cold expression on John’s face. “What.”

“Behave,” said John, and he moved to the bottom of the stairs to lead the way up. “Ready?”

“Ready,” said Lestrade.

“Oh, for the love of—“ said Sherlock.

A shot rang from the top of the stairs, and missed John by inches. John leveled his gun and fired, and there was a yell, and a clatter.

John looked at Sherlock meaningfully. “Can we _go_?” he said, expression daring Sherlock to argue.

“… Fine,” said Sherlock.

“Lovely,” grumbled Lestrade, and he and Sherlock haltingly followed John up the stairs, ascending silently and carefully.

John reached the top, and paused long enough to look around, and then stepped into the room above and gestured with one hand that it was safe to follow. “I think it’s empty up here,” he said. “I don’t know where they just went…”

Sherlock and Lestrade joined him. It was a back storage room—or rather, what was left of one. The chaos of overturned furniture and bullet holes in the walls was a fitting prelude to the main room beyond, as well. Sherlock could see the shop was in an even greater state of disarray, most of the merchandise of the little Chinese imports shop he’d been secreted in now in pieces all over the place.

There was a gun on the floor by his feet, and a few dots of blood. But no body.

Sherlock frowned, and finally freed himself from Lestrade—“Sherlock!” protested John—to step into the main room, looking around.

There had definitely been something of a shoot-out here, between the Black Lotus and the Yard as the Black Lotus made their escape. But there were no bodies. Miraculously, there were no bodies anywhere.

Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade. “Was no one killed?”

“Uh…” said Lestrade, puzzled. “I don’t think so. We were just trying to get them to surrender, so there weren’t many shots fired on our side. A few, though—I think one of them got hit as we forced the front door open. But they were fleeing left and right.”

Sherlock stumbled back towards the stairs, perpetually on the verge of falling over but never actually falling, and stopped short as John stepped in his way.

“Slow down,” said John. “We’re all fine.”

“We are not all fine,” snapped Sherlock. “The men downstairs. The ones you shot. I have a feeling they aren’t going to be there anymore.”

Lestrade frowned and went back downstairs again. After a moment, he returned, and shook his head. “Looks like they’ve all run. One definitely got up and ran. Maybe they carried the other one out.”

Sherlock shook his head mutely.

_He knows what you are capable of._ All _that you are capable of_ , Shan had said.

No one knew about Sherlock’s gift. That was impossible.

But it was possible his reputation for success, with cases of murder and death and locked-door suicides and all of the more gruesome cases imaginable, meant that they knew he could make some damning deduction if he had a body to look at.

This couldn’t be anything like John’s near body-snatching.

Couldn’t possibly be.

It could be a coincidence.

_What do we say about coincidence?_ , asked an unwelcome voice in his head, an impatient question echoing down a long hallway in his mind.

What do we say about coincidence?

The universe is rarely so lazy.

“Hey.” John’s voice interrupted his thoughts—just in time, really, as Sherlock’s legs rather decided they had done more than enough work for the time being, and he sank sideways, clutching at an upended table for support.

“Steady now,” said Lestrade, an arm under Sherlock’s to help him back up. Sherlock could see John hanging back, balancing precariously on his toes from nearly moving forward to help. As usual.

“Sir?” called a woman’s voice from outside the shop, and Sherlock recognized Donovan’s voice.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re right here!” answered Lestrade, calling back as he and Sherlock finally reached the top landing and stepped into the room behind John. “All clear. But get a medic, will you?”

“No,” said Sherlock sharply in a flat-out refusal. “No. No. I refuse. I absolutely will not see a medic. No. No. I’m going home and you can all just—“

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock sat sulking at the back of an ambulance, a bright orange blanket draped over his shoulders. Around him, the ruined Lucky Cat Emporium was swarming with police officers as they patrolled the site and searched the interior of the building. Lestrade barked orders to his team from the front of the building, sending Anderson (whom Sherlock had been delighted to hear had spent the entirety of the shootout hiding in Lestrade’s car) dashing in every which direction marking evidence. Lestrade had recovered Sherlock’s phone—turned off—and other effects, including his long black coat, from the basement and returned them to him. Now, Sherlock was bundled in his coat and blanket, fluffed up like a bloody and disgruntled bird of prey and surveying the scene through haughty, narrowed eyes.

John hung back near the ambulance, silent and still, hands clasped behind his back.

Sherlock shrugged off the blanket over his shoulders, and the paramedic who’d been trying to get at him for the better part of an hour picked it up and put it on him again.

“Why do you keep _doing that_?” fumed Sherlock.

The paramedic looked confused. “It’s a shock blanket. For shock. You’re probably in shock.”

Sherlock tugged the blanket off his shoulders and hurled it as far away as he could, his arm and wrist screaming in bloody protest, and he glared at the paramedic so he didn’t have to see how pathetic his throw had been. “If you put that goddamn blanket on me one more time—“

His sentence was interrupted by the neon orange shock blanket smacking him in the face.

Sherlock whipped around to see John casually putting his hands behind his back again, trying not to laugh.

Sherlock looked at John critically, while the paramedic snuck away. “… You _are_ all right, then?” he asked tentatively. John had looked remarkably calm all this time, as the police searched the building top to bottom.

“Of course I am,” said John, tilting his head with a confused air. “Are you?”

“You shot people today,” said Sherlock, ignoring John’s question.

John nodded. “People who were planning on shooting you and me both,” he said. “Didn’t have a lot of time to debate things with them. As it was, I got the impression we were cutting it a little close, getting you out of there.”

“A little close for comfort, perhaps,” conceded Sherlock. “But you’ll note I’m not dead, so you must have managed.”

John looked almost apologetic, something Sherlock genuinely couldn’t understand. John was sorry for finding him? Not finding him fast enough to avoid stress?

“Are you still annoyed about the whole me-being-missing thing?” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John automatically, and Sherlock sighed wearily.

“Annoyed, furious, tired,” elaborated John. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not glad we found you in time.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked a little at the corners in the smallest of smirks. “How exactly did you find me?” he said, looking closely at John.

John sighed. “Well, when you didn’t come back for a day, I—“

“Sherlock!” Lestrade walked over from the front of the building to join them by the ambulance. “The building’s empty. They’ve all run for it, looks like. We’ve found plenty of illegal goods and a few really illegal and really expensive things hidden away in there, but they’re all gone. We’ll find them, of course,” the policeman added, but the Detective looked skeptical.

“Doubt it,” he said.

Lestrade managed to stop himself from scowling. “In the meantime—we cleared the area. We’ve searched just like you advised. There’s nothing left for you to do. So would you _please_ just go to a sodding hospital, and get yourself looked at?”

“No,” was the sullen retort.

Lestrade put his hands on his hips like Sherlock was an errant child about to get a scolding. “You’re a mess, Sherlock. I mean it, _go to a hospital_. I’m taking you off these cases if you don’t.”

“You know I hate hospitals,” argued Sherlock. “You’re constantly surrounded by dead and dying people or people who want to baby you like you’re too stupid to know what’s going on when they talk about you. I’m not doing it. I’ll take care of myself.”

“How?” demanded Lestrade.

Sherlock didn’t have a fully formulated answer, so, he shrugged. “I’ve always managed in the past.”

Lestrade scowled. “Yeah? Well this is the first time I’ve seen you looking more like the dead people you poke than not.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to fire off an indignant reply, but John intervened.

“How about I patch him up?” said John, looking between the two of them. “I’m a doctor. I’m sure I can handle it.”

“But—“ said Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You can’t touch me. It’s not just a bad idea, it’s an idiotically bad one.”

“I got you out of the Lucky Cat without touching you,” John pointed out.

“That was different.”

“Yeah,” said John, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Then, there was the added challenge of people trying to kill us.”

“Do you really think you can manage?” asked Lestrade, an eyebrow raised as he looked at John uncertainly. “How?”

“I’ll… figure that out,” said John, just as uncertain but far more determined.

“Do you have a death wish?” demanded Sherlock.

John squared his shoulders. “Look, Sherlock, it’s me or it’s a hospital. Your choice.”

Sherlock sat back, scowling, but considering.

The Detective had never liked hospitals. Doctors and nurses—no offense to John—too frequently ignored the most obvious of deductions and missed what mattered. They were idiots, all of them, and treated their patients like the biggest idiots of all. Beyond that, he was perfectly at home in a morgue, where the dead were decidedly so, unless he brought them back. There was an atmosphere of control. Hospitals weren’t like that. The Detective saw a lot of dead people in his life, but he hadn’t really seen many die. At least, not the first time.

John, however, was something of an anomaly, in most things. Maybe he’d be reasonably less annoying to deal with.

Or maybe he’d be a tremendous pushover and would leave Sherlock alone, with the application of the correct amount of sulking.

Sherlock dropped the shock blanket in the back of the ambulance. “Fine. As long as you can assure me you aren’t going to be stupid about it and die.”

“I think I can manage,” said John.

Lestrade sighed, clearly not fully convinced but unwilling to argue any longer. “Then get home. You can give me a report tomorrow when you’re in better shape. We’re lucky we found you when we did, and I think it’d be stupid to push it until you pass out.”

John nodded—while Sherlock mumbled something like “I do not _pass out_ ” under his breath—and Sherlock, grudgingly, did as well, but he paused.

“That reminds me, Lestrade,” he said. “I’d asked John—how did you manage to find me? I admit I was unduly impressed with your ability to feign competence.”

Lestrade suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable. “I called in a favor.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I thought as much. I couldn’t believe you found me by virtue of your skill alone. So?”

Lestrade didn’t immediately answer. Sherlock peered at him.

The policeman actually looked as if he felt _guilty_.

Sherlock’s expression hardened. “Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t know what else to do!” protested Lestrade, looking even more embarrassed. “As it was, I put it off so long we barely got to you in time—“

“ _Tell me you didn’t_ ,” snarled Sherlock again.

John looked from Sherlock to Lestrade in confusion, but Lestrade looked like he’d lost his nerve, and Sherlock his patience.

“He’s here, isn’t he,” said Sherlock, knowing the answer. “Where.”

Lestrade pointed uncomfortably behind the ambulance, and Sherlock dropped to the ground and unsteadily walked around the side of the vehicle, one hand on the side for support. John followed behind, but somehow sensed that any objections he voiced now would be completely lost on Sherlock. He cast a bewildered look over his shoulder at Lestrade, but Lestrade was deliberately looking anywhere but at them.

Sherlock stalked to the front of the ambulance, and stopped.

There was a black sedan parked a short distance away, just outside the perimeter set up by the police. A driver sat behind the wheel, not engaged in any obvious task but still at attention, and a woman stood to one side of the car, her eyes glued to the phone in her hands.

A third figure, a man dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, stood near the car, leaning on an umbrella with an air of casual disinterest.

As soon as he noticed Sherlock walking in his direction, he raised his head in acknowledgement. “Should you really be walking?” the man said, loud enough for his voice to carry its criticism across the street and smack Sherlock in the face.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded, stalking across the street.

“I was worried about you,” said the newcomer, standing up and lifting his umbrella, examining the tip of it with more visible interest than when he regarded Sherlock. “I thought I’d drop by rather than wait for the official report. And I knew you’d never let me know how you were getting on. I was concerned.”

“Oh, yes, ‘concerned’,” said Sherlock, making a face and mimicking the tone. “I was hoping it was just a coincidence that you’re here. Perhaps we blocked traffic as you were on your way to start a war somewhere.”

“Really, Sherlock. What do we say about coincidence?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” they both said in unison, and Sherlock glowered.

“Always so aggressive,” sighed the other man, lowering his umbrella again so that it tapped the ground with an irritated little click. “Has it ever occurred to you that we’re on the same side?”

“As it happens, no,” said Sherlock, thrusting his hands deep in his coat pockets, not wanting to face scrutiny.

“Really, Sherlock, after all the trouble I took locating you, the least you could do is try to be civil.”

“Civil?” repeated Sherlock, voice taking on a tone of bitter amusement. “You’re going to give me lessons in etiquette? This from the man who has no qualms about casually spying on everyone else just for the sake of being a di—“

“Really, it’s this kind of behavior that I’m objecting to, Sherlock,” interrupted the man in exasperation. His eyes flickered towards the ambulance across the street and away.

Sherlock paused. He knew what was going on. This wasn’t simply about checking in and being concerned. This was about gathering information, especially information Sherlock wouldn’t share. And on that score, the last thing he needed was to linger and draw attention to the fact that John Watson, assumed deceased Captain of the Fifth Northumberland, was standing feet away at the scene of a police shootout, kidnapping, and attempted murder.

Sherlock stepped to one side, largely blocking John and the ambulance from view. “I don’t need you,” he said flatly. “You should know that by now. I can’t stop Lestrade from calling you on my behalf, but don’t expect me to be dutifully thankful.”

“I’ve long since stopped expecting anything like that.” Another agitated click of the umbrella. “Even when I am acting in your best interest.”

Sherlock laughed, and the effort almost hurt. “You don’t even know what that is,” he said. “You’re controlling, not caring. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.” He turned to go, signaling an end to the conversation.

But a hand touched his shoulder to turn him back around, and Sherlock—so used to avoiding every form of contact after decades of knowing exactly what his touch could do—automatically flinched away, glaring with narrowed eyes. “For God’s sake, _Mycroft_ , leave. Me. Alone—“

“It’s not unreasonable for me to question the company you keep,” said Mycroft, hand withdrawn and umbrella again striking the pavement to punctuate his point. He leaned on it, leaning forward with an expression of acute frustration. “Especially when, as far as I can tell, they don’t exist.”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped, and then his heart skipped a beat when the nonexistent company in question spoke up behind him, and said, “Everything all right?”

Shit.

Sherlock and Mycroft both looked up to see John approaching, watching them both. John tried a sort of apologetic smile. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” he said, and Sherlock could see instantly from the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes that this wasn’t necessarily true. “But I don’t think he should be standing just yet.”

“And you are?” said Mycroft, standing a little straighter so he could look down his nose at John.

Sherlock almost intervened, but John said smoothly, “A colleague of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s. And you are?”

“A concerned party,” said Mycroft, eyes narrowed.

“And leaving,” added Sherlock, and he turned and stalked back towards the Lucky Cat. “Goodbye, Mycroft. Let’s not do this again.”

John turned to follow.

“You should be careful about associating too closely with Sherlock. Especially if you have something to hide,” said Mycroft.

John looked at him, taking in the suit, umbrella, and scrutinizing eyes. He wasn’t sure why, but something about him made John uneasy, and an instinctive dislike told him it was time to go. “What makes you think I have something to hide?” he said. Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Sherlock had already staggered to Lestrade, who was halfway through offering him a ride home.

“Yes, please,” said John on Sherlock’s behalf, and for once, Sherlock didn’t argue, steadfast in his determination not to look back at Mycroft but also eager to leave as fast as humanly possible.

Lestrade pointed them in the direction of his squad car, and all three of them hurried to it, John staying close to Sherlock in case he should fall, but Sherlock staggered alone with singular determination.

“Who’s the bastard with the umbrella?” asked John quietly as they made their way to the car, and he paused to glance back. “Mycroft, or whatever you called him.”

Sherlock opened the back door of the car and slid into the backseat, grimacing at every movement. He looked back, and then looked out the opposite window. “Mycroft Holmes. Consistently a bastard. And my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god Mycroft don't we have enough to deal with without you sticking your nose in everyone's business  
> don't you have governments to run  
> people to spy on  
> cakes to consume
> 
> ENTER: YET ANOTHER COMPLICATION IN THE FORM OF THE OLDEST HOLMES BROTHER
> 
> ~
> 
> Sorry for the small delay in updating, everyone - it's been a busy start to the semester, and I've discovered that "final semester" as an undergrad in no way denotes "easy semester"...  
> The next chapter will be on time, however!
> 
> I think many of you will have guessed from the title of this chapter who was coming - I couldn't stop myself from bringing Mycroft in. I love writing Mycroft (though I've written little of him), and of course, Sherlock would be hard-pressed to do anything without Mycroft getting involved.  
> This is, obviously, a significant concern when Sherlock's trying to hide an entire person from Mycroft. 
> 
> After all, does Mycroft know about Sherlock's gift?...
> 
> Also, hooray for the recent surplus in badass John. It's been needed for far too long. I hope I write him well enough to pull it off!
> 
> To all of you still reading, thank you so much for sticking with me! Your feedback means a lot :D <3


	17. All Good Rules

The car ride passed in silence.

At first, John—still in shock at the fact that there were two Holmes men, and keen to find out more about this umbrella-wielding brother—attempted to get Sherlock to elaborate. But as they drove, Sherlock grew increasingly mute and sullen, until eventually he stared out the window and ignored everything John said.

John didn’t find this particularly surprising, in light of Sherlock’s present condition. If he was the one who had been held captive in a basement without much or anything in the way of water and food, John doubted he’d be all that chatty either. And he got the feeling Sherlock wasn’t going to enthusiastically talk about his brother anytime soon, judging from their interactions outside the Lucky Cat.

Still, the brother (Mycroft? Apparently no Holmes could have a normal name) lingered in John’s thoughts the entire way to Baker Street.

_You should be careful_ , he’d said.

_Especially if you have something to hide_.

Was that a warning, or was it friendly advice?

John was fairly certain it was the former, and that set him on edge.

But Sherlock’s injuries, which were considerable however you looked at them, took precedence over everything else. John could deal with the consequences of venturing outside the flat later. For now, he had to deal with Sherlock.

The Detective sat alone in the backseat of the car, with John riding passenger in the front next to Lestrade. Bloody and pale, Sherlock’s contributions to any conversation went from brief sentences to grunts to pointed silence, and John and Lestrade let him be. John thought Sherlock might fall asleep in the car, but every time he looked in the rearview mirror, Sherlock’s eyes were open and fixed on the view out the window, streetlights glittering in his eyes.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Lestrade’s car drove up to the curb on Baker Street after about twenty minutes of travel—when traffic got too slow, Lestrade wordlessly put on his sirens to roar ahead a few blocks—and rolled to a gentle stop.

Sherlock, one temple pressed against the window, took a deep breath. His bones seemed to have filled with hardening cement, as the idea of moving was becoming more and more preposterous by the second.

“Do you think you can make it up to the flat?” asked John gently, turning around in his seat to look at Sherlock. The bulletproof vest he’d borrowed for the raid on the Lucky Cat Emporium sat at his feet on the floor of Lestrade’s car, but he still wore the hooded jacket, in case he needed to help Sherlock inside.

Sherlock snorted rudely. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

John sighed, and got out of the car. He opened Sherlock’s door, while Lestrade crossed the sidewalk to ring the bell and summon Mrs. Hudson.

Grimacing, hissing between his teeth, Sherlock slid to the side and out of the car, leaning on the door and the side of the car heavily. John opened his mouth to offer to help, but Sherlock anticipated the offer and shot it down.

“You can’t touch me and I don’t need help, so just let me be,” the Detective snapped, so John simply stood to the side to let him get his footing.

The door of 221B opened, and Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. She looked up in surprise at Lestrade. “What hour of the night do you call this, dear?” she said, pulling her bathrobe very tight around her shoulders and giving the Inspector a disapproving look.

“I _am_ sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” said Lestrade. “But—“

But Mrs. Hudson had seen past Lestrade, and straight to Sherlock.

She let out a little shriek.

“ _Sherlock_!” she cried, gaping at him, and Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “What on Earth have you gotten yourself into?!”

“I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, endeavoring to sound offhand, and he even stood up straight for effect. John had to applaud his bravado, even if it was somewhat pointless given his current condition.

“But…” said Mrs. Hudson, doubt written all across her face. She stood to one side, opening the door wide. “You’d better come in,” she said, gesturing for them all to get inside.

Sherlock braced himself and walked to the door slowly. John followed behind, closing the door of Lestrade’s car and then trailing behind at a safe distance. Lestrade got out of Sherlock’s way, and Sherlock entered, mumbled a “Thank you” to Mrs. Hudson, and started up the stairs without delay and with infinite slowness.

“Can I bring you anything?” said Mrs. Hudson worriedly, watching him ascend the stairs. “I’m not your housekeeper, but…”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock automatically. The last thing he wanted was to have to deal with people. If John had anywhere else he could go, Sherlock would have kicked him out too, until he felt in control again. Accepting help in the process of escaping the Black Lotus was one thing, but being babied was something else entirely. And entirely unacceptable.

Lestrade and John both hung back as Sherlock made his way upstairs—though each glanced after Sherlock multiple times to monitor his progress—in order to reassure Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock was, in spite of his appearance, ‘okay’. As Sherlock reached the top of the stairs and half-fell through the door, he could hear Lestrade promising he would be back first thing in the morning to check in on them and to bring Sherlock to the Yard in order to file an official statement about his ordeal.

_But more so he can check that neither John nor I are dead_ , thought Sherlock morbidly, as he stumbled into the dark flat and sank onto the sofa in the living room with a muffled groan. He curled on his side, ignoring the way it made his chest and abdomen hurt, and shut his eyes.

The excitement and adrenaline of the case had faded as his physical needs became more apparent and demanding, and he felt heavy and sluggish. And hurt. It was remarkable (in an infuriating kind of way) how much energy being in pain required, and how much sleeping could appeal after spending so much time unconscious over the last two days.

There was the sound of a door closing downstairs, and quiet voices as John and Mrs. Hudson continued to talk in the hallway on the floor below. Lestrade’s car engine started and drove away.

God, what he’d do to have some quiet. Surely, his body could fix itself. It was all just transport, anyway…

There were footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later, he could hear John entering the flat. John took off his jacket and hung it in the closet, and quietly shut the door to the flat. There was a pause, and then John turned on the lights.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

Sherlock grunted in response.

“Can I get you anything? Maybe a glass of water? You’re definitely dehydrated.”

This was met with an even less enthusiastic grunt.

John watched him for a few seconds, brow furrowed with concern, before he went to the kitchen and started rooting around.

Sherlock, his face buried in the back of the sofa, resisted the urge to turn around and look to see what John was doing, both because he knew it would involve medical things that Sherlock had no intent of enduring and because he knew it would hurt to roll over.

Cabinet opening. Hollow thud suggesting the cabinet under the sink. Rummaging in a box. The sound of the faucet, and then the tear of paper towels. John’s footsteps around the kitchen then moved upstairs at a brisk walk, ascending, and then becoming quiet thumps as John dug around. Bathroom, then bedroom, Sherlock thought. His head hurt too much for this, but he couldn’t help himself. It was less effort to deduce than ask.

John returned a moment later, his arms full of towels and a glass of water and his bag and kit, to find Sherlock lying exactly as he had been. He deposited his armload of supplies on the coffee table in the living room, and brought the bathroom’s trash bin over as well. When Sherlock still didn’t respond, John retrieved the box of rubber gloves he’d taken from the cabinet under the kitchen sink, holding the box under his arm while he tugged a glove onto each hand. He rolled the gloves over the cuffs of his sleeves, covering his skin. He wasn’t sure how foolproof rubber gloves would be in terms of inhibiting the effects of Sherlock’s gift on a once-dead-now-alive-again individual, but it was the best he could think of, and he was willing to take the chance. A jacket had been enough to get them out of the Lucky Cat; surely, this would work just as well, if not better, considering rubber gloves were actually _intended_ to keep anything he touched from touching his skin.

“Are those your gloves or mine?” came Sherlock’s muffled voice, and John looked up at him. Sherlock looked almost fragile, curled against the sofa, though he was sure Sherlock’s intention was to feign the opposite.

“Yours,” said John.

“Oh. Glad to know you’ve been finding everything fine.”

John snorted, adjusting one of the rubber gloves. “Ha, yeah, no thanks to you. I’ve been stuck here with nothing to do but look around for almost two weeks—I know where everything in this place is, including the two jars of _eyes_ you’re hiding in the fridge behind the mayonnaise.”

“It’s for an experiment.”

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.”

“That’s one opinion,” mumbled Sherlock grouchily.

John sighed a laugh, and moved around the coffee table to sit on the edge of it, a couple feet away from Sherlock. “Anyway. Let’s get you cleaned up, and then you can sleep.”

Sherlock didn’t move. “Or.”

John’s face grew serious. “No ‘or’,” he said shortly.

“Or,” repeated Sherlock, ignoring him. “We could not.”

“How about we just get this over with?” suggested John. As eager as Sherlock was to avoid dealing with a doctor (any doctor, even this one), John was equally eager to get going. He’d been watching Sherlock sitting in the back of ambulances and police cars for the better part of two hours, refusing everything other than the occasional bottle of water. He wasn’t about to let Sherlock’s pigheadedness inhibit his wellbeing again, at least not tonight.

“In the morning,” said Sherlock, still speaking into the sofa cushions.

“Now,” corrected John.

“No.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock’s muffled voice gained a sort of sharpness. “ _No_.”

John matched his tone. “Yes,” he said. “I mean it, Sherlock. You look an absolute mess, and every second you waste is just another second you have to feel like shit. You do understand I’m trying to help you, right?”

“Very nice of you.”

John was used to difficult patients. He’d been a doctor in all sorts of environments with all sorts of people. He would be hard-pressed to find a set of circumstances that were at all alien to him. Or, at least, that had been the case before he’d been killed. Now—well, there was something to be said for the difficulty involved with treating a patient like Sherlock. For any other patient resisting treatment, John would have just started anyway and made the best of the situation. But that was different with Sherlock, as proceeding without his cooperation had the potential to be catastrophic (at best, exasperating and at worst, fatal) for both them. “The sooner we get you patched up, the sooner you can relax,” said John. “And the better you’ll feel. Because I doubt you feel all that great right now.”

Sherlock finally turned his head just enough to look at John out of the corner of one eye. “This can wait until morning,” he said.

John shook his head. “No.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but John continued, undaunted, “Considering what the last week has been like with you, I won’t be all that surprised if you’ve gone charging off after some new lead by morning, never mind how poorly you feel. And then you’ll probably either make the damage that much worse, or get something infected. Or you’ll get smacked around again, and then you’ll really need a hospital.”

“There’s no need to be melodramatic,” said Sherlock dourly.

“I don’t think I’m exaggerating in the slightest,” said John. And he didn’t. Cynical as it was, he wouldn’t be surprised if he found Sherlock gone again by morning—a realization that left him feeling even more frustrated and inflexible. If he was going to be perpetually left behind and stuck in the flat until disaster struck, he wasn’t going to sit around and let Sherlock get away with sitting around when it mattered most to be doing something.

Sherlock rolled onto his back with a grimace, fixing John with a wary glare. “This is all superficial and will heal with time. I may not be medically trained, but I am confident that much is true. I’m not stupid.”

“Getting abducted was stupid,” said John flatly, and Sherlock looked away resentfully. “Going out like that on your own was stupid. Keeping everything to yourself was stupid.” He paused, and added, “Refusing help when you obviously need it is stupid.”

“Treating a patient you can’t touch is stupid,” retorted Sherlock.

“Don’t start that again,” said John. “We’ve been through this a hundred times. I know what I’m doing.”

Sherlock looked John up and down. He wanted to say no, repeatedly, as many times as it took for John to just leave him alone and let him take care of himself. But as stubborn as he was, he could see John was just as stubborn.

Maybe even more so than he was.

“The _bare minimum_ ,” said Sherlock, sounding for all the world as if he was accepting some dangerous experimental procedure. “You can do just enough to tide me over until morning and then you can go away.”

John shrugged and nodded. “Fine. But I’ll be the judge of how much that is.”

Sherlock glowered. “Brilliant. I’m sure you won’t overdo it at all.”

“You’re one to talk about overdoing it,” John pointed out.

“Just shut up and do whatever you’re going to do.”

John did without further delay. He looked at Sherlock, the attentiveness in his face giving Sherlock the sensation of being dissected. The look wasn’t wholly unlike Sherlock’s expression when he was in the midst of a deduction, and Sherlock found he was not keen on being the subject of scrutiny. He never had, and it was no different with John.

“Well? How bad?” said Sherlock.

John looked at him uncertainly. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Deduce. You’ve been looking at me weirdly ever since you found me,” snapped Sherlock. “Clearly you have suspicions.”

John waved a hand, vaguely gesturing to all of Sherlock. “Well, besides the obvious bruising, cuts, and damage to your wrists, I’d guess you messed up your ankles, and maybe your knees too. I don’t think you dislocated anything in your arms, which is something of a miracle. But it looks like they gave you a bit of a beat-down, and I’m willing to bet you’re bruised all over. That’s probably the worst of it, even though it feels worse. Though honestly a concussion wouldn’t—“

“I don’t have a concussion,” sneered Sherlock derisively.

“I don’t know that,” said John, patiently. “I haven’t had a chance to—“

“No, you don’t understand,” interrupted Sherlock. “ _I don’t have a concussion_. I think I would know.”

John rubbed his eyes. “I’m not sure it works that way, but God knows I don’t have it in me to argue with you regarding the state of your brain.”

Sherlock gave a smug nod, and settled back against the sofa cushions. “Sounds like you’re done, then. Thanks for your input.”

“Give me a break,” said John wearily. “You like evidence, yeah? Give me a chance to collect some before you hold me to any conclusions.”

“I’m not a case,” said Sherlock, frowning at the idea.

“Hypocrite.”

Sherlock heaved a loud, miserable sigh.

“I know you’re keen to sleep…” said John, anticipating the objection that followed within fractions of a second.

“I’m eager to get some peace away from prying, pestering people,” said Sherlock harshly, and John, to his credit, merely rolled his eyes and decided that getting permission was completely hopeless.

Sherlock considered how much better his life would be if he could sink into the sofa cushions and vanish through the floor below and beyond, while John adjusted his gloves as if he was adjusting armor in preparation of a long and dismal battle.

“Is there anything in particular causing you the most pain?” asked John, and Sherlock grimaced.

_Just like any other doctor_ , Sherlock thought, with a hint of disappointment. This was going to be just as tedious and infuriating and patronizing as it was with any doctor.

John pursed his lips and tried again. It didn’t take a genius to pick up on Sherlock’s attitude. “Just trying to get an idea of where to start.”

“Surprise me,” said Sherlock shortly.

John just managed to resist the urge to groan in frustration, but only just. Sherlock could read his thoughts clearly across his face, and they were almost funny. _You’re a doctor, Watson. He’s just like any other belligerent patient. Just—exceptionally belligerent._

 “Can you roll your ankles?” asked John. When Sherlock met this question with silence, John demonstrated, lifting one foot off the ground and rotating it clockwise. “You know, move it around without much pain?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, without moving.

The two men stared at one another.

 “Prove it?” ventured John.

Sherlock grit his teeth, and rolled his ankles. Both clicked, and were stiff, and the right one hurt so much that he stopped after one rotation. He crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them quickly, his wrists, elbows, shoulders, and chest in particular all protesting with burning stabs of pain. “All fine,” he lied.

“I’ve been watching you limp all night since I found you,” retorted John, and he was finally picking up a little bit of exasperation in his tone and body language. His voice grew flat and his shoulders squared with a stubborn concavity. “Work with me, here. I know the right ankle is painful.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “If you already know the answer, why ask? How much of being a doctor involves asking stupid questions?”

“How much of being a consulting detective involves being a smartass?” said John.

“Touché.”

John smiled wryly. “Rate the pain in the right ankle from one to ten,” he said, refusing to be deterred.

“Six,” offered Sherlock crisply.

John nodded, thinking. “Okay. Probably a sprain. Then let’s move on from that for the time being and I can bind it later. How much are you going to argue when I tell you I need you to take your shirt off?”

Sherlock looked at John as if he’d grown another head.

“I want to make sure you haven’t broken any ribs,” explained John.

“What makes you think there’s something wrong with my ribs?” demanded Sherlock.

“Maybe because I was there when you hissed at the paramedic for poking you?” suggested John.

Sherlock looked sour and didn’t move.

“Sherlock…”

“I don’t need your help,” said Sherlock.

Something hot and angry rekindled in John’s chest. “Look, Sherlock, I’m not the idiot who got myself beaten to a pulp because I’m too stubborn to accept help,” he said, and he couldn’t quite stop a familiar bitterness resurfacing as he spoke. If Sherlock hadn’t left him behind, this might not have happened. If Sherlock had just told him where he was going, they might have rescued him much sooner.

“Don’t start that again,” said Sherlock.

But John ignored him, temper flaring. “If you’re going to refuse to take proper precautions, then you’ve got to deal with the consequences!”

“I’m not a child,” said Sherlock loudly. “I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly not!” said John, half-shouting him down. “You might be able to bring back the dead, but I can’t bring you back to life. The best I can do is keep you alive. So _let me_.”

The force in John’s voice became more pronounced, but so did a new edge Sherlock did not immediately recognize. When he did, his voice was suddenly questioning. “… Are you worried?”

John blinked, his annoyance faltering a little at the unexpected question. “That should be obvious.”

To Sherlock, it wasn’t obvious. Maybe it should be, but it made sense somehow that Sherlock could see all the things people missed and then fail to see the obvious things for himself.

“I wouldn’t be, if you’d let me do my job,” John added.

Sherlock shifted. He never needed help. He never had to call on doctors. He never needed someone to fix him up.

But then, this was John. And somehow John just never quite abided by the Rules.

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling as if it had done him a personal wrong, and mutely undid the buttons on his shirt and fixed John with a look of unbridled but utterly mute loathing.

John met his gaze levelly, and inclined his head in a silent gesture of thanks. He knelt, checking to make sure the gloves over his hands were rolled over his sleeves, leaving no skin exposed. When he was sure, John said, “Okay, it might hurt a little when I touch if there is something wrong, so try not to move. Or at least give me warning.”

Sherlock kept his eyes riveted on the ceiling and didn’t reply.

“Are you having any trouble breathing?” asked John, leaning forward a little and shifting Sherlock’s shirt so he could look at his chest and side.

There was bruising—an angry, mottled contusion in a band parallel to a couple of Sherlock’s ribs—but no obvious major trauma. John was certain it was only bruising, and not a break. Still, it was obviously painful. He touched one rib, barely, and Sherlock twitched. “Stabbing or aching pain? Trouble breathing?” said John again.

Sherlock didn’t answer, and John turned to glare at him.

“… No.”

John nodded. “Can you breathe deeply?”

“Mm.” Sherlock seemed to be going to great lengths to use as few words as possible, and John could see he looked tense enough to snap.

“Can you do so now?” asked John, striving to be gentle.

Sherlock took a deep breath—barely, but John let it count—and John couldn’t feel or see anything obviously wrong, nor could he hear anything in Sherlock’s intake and release of air that suggested internal problems. He reached into his medical kit, glad that of all of his possessions, this was the one he still had. He brought out a stethoscope and donned it.

Sherlock sat up.

“Hey—“ started John.

“This is ridiculous,” snapped Sherlock, sliding away down the sofa. “I’m done. I don’t need to be examined in a thousand different ways. My body will heal on its own without you hovering around. I’ve managed on my own before you happened and I must have managed well enough, considering I’m not dead.”

John tugged the stethoscope down around his neck and threw his hands in the air in exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not lying there while you poke me and try to figure out if I’m dying,” said Sherlock venomously.

“Then let’s just do your wrists and be done with it, because clearly, you’d rather suffer alone,” replied John furiously.

“Took you long enough to catch on.”

They glared at one another for a moment, until finally John looked away and dug in his bag. He brought out antibacterial wipes, and he gestured sharply, finally past the point of patience. “Come on, then.”

Sherlock extended an arm, face taciturn, sensing an end to the fussing. John took his hand—still gentle, even if he wasn’t feeling particularly patient anymore—and pushed up the sleeve.

Sherlock’s wrist was a bloody, bleeding mess. The cuffs had clearly dug into his skin from straining against them, and as a result, there was a surplus of dark bruising and long shallow cuts from where the metal had bit into his skin. Most of it had stopped bleeding, but that did little to make it look less painful. As frustrated as he evidently was, the concern in John’s expression easily won out, and he bit his lip. There was something above the injury as well, something on the skin, that made John pause.

“... What’s this?”

Sherlock’s brows raised ever so slightly, not looking at what John was indicating. “Mm?”

“This, these letters,” said John, touching Sherlock’s arm with one gloved finger. There was faint writing. The blood it had been written with had smeared and rubbed off in places, but it was obviously blood.

“Oh.” Sherlock glanced at the writing on his arm. “I had limited means of conveying a message.”

“I—don’t understand,” said John, concern etched across his features.

“Well, in case I died,” elaborated Sherlock, feeling uncomfortable and unsettled by the look on John’s face. “To convey what I had learned to you and Lestrade.”

John’s frustration and irritation evaporated, to be replaced by a stunned and painful sort of awe.

Perhaps there really was more feeling to Sherlock Holmes than met the eye.

“… Did you really think you were going to die?” said John finally.

Sherlock shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant even though the memory of the panic that had flooded his system made him feel strained all over again. “I only realized it was a real possibility in the last five minutes or so of my being there. And maybe only seriously considered it for the last two minutes and forty seconds.”

“Were you afraid?”

Sherlock looked at John. “No,” he said, and it was only in saying it aloud that he realized that was a lie. Then, “… Were you? Before you died. When you were spending your time going off into warzones and whatnot.”

John’s mouth twitched in a sad little smile. “Oh God yes.”

“And today?”

“Yeah. Today, too,” said John.

Sherlock shifted, not making eye contact, but John didn’t push the subject any further.

“… You can carry on with the doctoring – stuff,” said Sherlock after a moment, breaking the silence. The hostility of a few moments ago had vanished and, now, Sherlock just wanted to be in less pain, and wanted someone to make that happen. And knew John could. Or could at least try.

“You sure?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged, then nodded. “I have to admit, I’m more than a little tired of the constant discomfort.”

“Let’s see what I can do about that, then,” said John, picking up a bottle of antiseptic and a handful of cotton balls with a renewed sense of purpose.

Sherlock nodded in curt approval. “I suppose I have to concede that you do know what you’re doing.”

“We’re not even remotely close to being out of my comfort zone,” said John frankly.

“Oh,” said Sherlock, and somehow, John’s nonchalance was enough to get him to relax the tiniest bit.

“Okay, I’m going to clean them before I wrap them,” said John, upending the antiseptic for a second to wet the cotton ball covering the opening before he set the bottle down. “Might sting a little,” he added, cautiously holding Sherlock’s arm still with one hand as he touched the cotton ball to the lacerations on Sherlock’s wrist.

“Obviously, but I’m not— _OW_ ,” he yelled suddenly, so loudly that John jumped a foot in the air and retreated as Sherlock jerked his wrist out of John’s grip. Sherlock stared at his wrist indignantly, then at John. “You said a _little_.”

“Considering the beating you’ve taken, I somehow expected your pain tolerance to be higher than screaming at antiseptic, you maniac,” said John, heart beating so fast he thought he might need a lie-down himself. He pressed a hand over his heart. “Holy hell.”

“My pain tolerance _is_ high,” argued Sherlock, indignation replaced by amusement at John’s reaction.

“Could have fooled me,” said John, taking a steadying breath, before readjusting his gloves and resuming.

Sherlock grimaced, but held still this time and watched John clean the wound.

“So what’s it mean?” asked John, looking again at the writing on Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock turned it to make the writing easier to see.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you and Lestrade wouldn’t have been able to figure it out, come _on_ …”

“Okay, okay, give me a second,” said John. He looked more closely, all the while applying antibacterial medication to the cuts. “’M’. ‘M’ as in ‘Moriarty’?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, with a nod.

“So the ‘1 man’…” John frowned, thinking. “Is supposed to mean Moriarty is one person.”

Sherlock nodded again, with a little smug satisfaction. “Go on.”

John mused over this. “I’ve no idea about the ‘black lotus’ bit,” he admitted at last, looking intently at the letters before getting a fresh cotton ball and carefully washing the bloody writing away.

“The group responsible for my abduction is the Black Lotus,” said Sherlock. “Identifiable by a tattoo of a lotus in black ink somewhere on their body. Wrists, ankles, feet…”

“Oh.” John stared at the writing. “Not to upset you, but I never would have guessed that.”

“I was hoping you and Lestrade would eventually have gotten so frustrated that you’d Google your way into finding some mention of them in an article from a Chinese smuggling case,” said Sherlock with a disappointed sigh that was cut short when John burst out laughing. “… Rude.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing,” said John, bringing himself back under control. “Just—did you seriously write that in a way that was trying to account for how stupid you think Lestrade and I are?”

“Well, there’s no point in writing something you two morons won’t be able to figure out,” said Sherlock.

“Thankfully we didn’t need to figure it out,” said John, now wrapping the wrist in gauze and securing it. He brought the other arm closer so he could work on that one as well, and he set about cleaning the wound on the second wrist, which was in slightly better shape than the first. “Good to know you dumb things down for us, though.”

“Don’t think too much of it; I do that for everyone,” said Sherlock absently.

“Not sure that’s a compliment…” mumbled John, tossing the last of the cotton balls into the bin and grabbing more gauze for the covering. “Wrists feel any better now that they’re cleaned? And is there any point in my asking if you’re up to date with your vaccinations?”

“Don’t start lecturing me about tetanus, I’m set on that front.”

“One less thing for me to worry about,” sighed John, dressing the wrist.

When he finished, John looked up at Sherlock, debating how far he was willing to push his luck, and deciding to go until he hit the brick wall that was Sherlock’s obstinacy. “Now. Can I actually listen to your breathing this time, or are you going to throw another fit?”

“No need to be so antagonistic about it,” said Sherlock loftily. “You may,” he said, when John’s only reply was yet another raised eyebrow.

John swapped his gloves for a clean pair, carefully making sure they covered his skin once pulled over his sleeves, and this time Sherlock observed with interest, feeling less irritable now that he was in a little less pain.

“Good to know clothing and latex enable some degree of contact,” said Sherlock. “I was fairly confident that skin-on-skin contact was necessary for my Gift to work, but I’ve never felt particularly inclined to experiment.”

“It’d be creepy if you had,” said John, donning his stethoscope again and warming the chestpiece against his palm for a few seconds before setting it on Sherlock’s chest and listening. He instructed Sherlock to take deep breaths a few times, and Sherlock did so without comment, and John finally took off the stethoscope. “You sound normal,” announced John.

“Which means?” Sherlock prompted.  
“Which means I don’t think there’s any internal damage. At least not to your lungs,” elaborated John. “I wanted to make sure. I’m pretty sure they’re just bruised. Broken ribs would be a much bigger problem, though bruised ribs still hurt a hell of a lot. Best treatment is to take it easy, either way. I don’t really need to do anything more than encourage you to rest and let them heal.”

Sherlock sat back, looking at John. “Would you be able to do anything if they _were_ broken?”

“Not if it was a major break, which it wouldn’t be, if you’re breathing fine,” said John, shaking his head. “If there’s a break, I think it’s really small, but I think you’ve just got some really nasty bruises. The treatment is the same either way.”

“Then what’s the point poking and prodding?”

“Well, if they were definitely broken, I’d stick you on bed rest for a week or two to make sure you didn’t make anything worse moving around and getting into trouble,” said John, impossibly patient.

Sherlock snorted. “As if you could.”

John looked at him squarely. “I definitely could.”

“Oh?” said Sherlock skeptically and he raised an eyebrow. “How would you do that?”

“I could sit in front of your door so you wouldn’t be able to leave without touching me and potentially killing me,” said John. “After a while you’d be forced to comply with bed rest.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long minute.

It was John’s turn to raise his eyebrow.

“You can be a real git when you want to be,” said Sherlock finally.

“And you’ve no one to blame but yourself,” replied John.

Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was impressed or outraged at John’s creativity. “But,” he said aloud, “they are not broken.”

“No, they’re not,” confirmed John. “So I’m simply going to suggest you don’t do anything physically strenuous for the next two or three weeks. And take full, deep breaths every hour or so, to stop things from getting infected. Just in case.”

Sherlock groaned loudly.

John smiled, holding back a laugh. “Hey, it’s better than bed rest.”

“Better than bed rest,” said Sherlock in grumbling agreement, though he’s almost—almost—tempted to smile at John’s optimism. “And the ankle?”

“I can wrap it,” offered John, anticipating a refusal. “Both of them. Give them some support.”

Sherlock sighed and shifted. When John didn’t move, he moved his sore ankle a half-inch closer to John. “Well, get on with it.”

John gave Sherlock a dry look that was utterly ruined by his inordinately pleased smile. He took a roll of cloth bandage out of his bag and started wrapping Sherlock’s ankle tightly.

Sherlock watched. “It’s a shame my injuries aren’t more interesting,” he said after a moment. “As treatments go, these seem fairly simplistic. Now, _stitches_. Stitches would be interesting.”

“Yeah, and bloody painful to put in or take out,” said John, speaking from recent experience.

“You removed yours?” said Sherlock, almost disappointed. “I wanted to see. I’m curious how your body can heal what was originally a fatal injury. And stitches are always interesting. Wonderfully diagnostic scarring.”

John rolled his eyes. “That’s nice and all, but I personally am glad you don’t need something more extreme than bandages. Can you imagine me trying to give you stitches without something going horribly wrong? Because I can’t.”

“Mm.” Sherlock sighed disappointedly. “Still.”

“Still, you got lucky,” said John, securing the bandage with a clip, before starting on the other ankle. “And I’m glad. I’d be happy to have nothing to do if it was because you weren’t a complete mess. But at least you’re okay. You may have had us worried. I was worried.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, thinking while he watched John work.

John – cared.

He was sure of this, but he was far from sure why this was so. John didn’t owe him anything, and he was confident John knew that. The cabbie’s death as a result of John remaining alive longer than a minute—and the responsibility John had felt for it—seemed, in Sherlock’s mind, to negate any sense of debt between them for Sherlock’s bringing John back to life. Beyond that, John had been the one who’d rescued Sherlock from the Lucky Cat, so Sherlock, in all likelihood, owed him. So it wasn’t caring out of necessity or obligation. And he was confident it was genuine. Like everything else with John had been so far.

Sherlock just couldn’t fathom why.

Sherlock could remember the decision he had made (at eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and fifty-one minutes of age, precisely) to stop caring about others. Being able to bring back the dead, if only for a moment, robbed the normal human heart of objective perspective. Of the ability to be impartial or fair or logical when emotionally invested.

There was fantasy, and there was Reality. And Reality coldly dictated the simple truth of the matter: all lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.

… And yet.

“You know I am the way I am out of necessity,” said Sherlock aloud.

John glanced up, frowning.

“When I… discovered my Gift, it became essential that I establish Rules. Rules to keep both myself and others from abusing it,” continued Sherlock tentatively. “I knew that I could tell no one. My parents, my brother… I never told them. I have never _told_ anyone about my Gift. Lestrade discovered it for himself, and you—well… But no one else knows. Or will know.”

John nodded.

“My Rules are necessary. It is essential that someone in my position keep their distance from those who could get too involved, intentionally or not. People complicate things.”

“Makes sense,” said John, securing the second ankle brace and sitting back.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t have people that I am close to. I don’t maintain familial ties; in fact, I hardly even acknowledge them. I don’t preserve relationships. The first Rule I have is that, in order to stop others from using me and to stop myself from letting them, I have to work alone. I don’t have backup. I don’t have colleagues. I don’t have friends. Alone _protects_ me.”

John nodded once more, with an air of resignation. Sherlock had said that before, before he’d been captured by the Black Lotus. _Alone protects me_ , he’d said. “I’m not sure how well ‘alone’ protected you from Moriarty in the last couple days. But I get it, I guess. And either way, I’m not you. I have no right to question your Rules.”

That didn’t mean there wasn’t something sad about it, something that made the knowledge ache where it came to rest.

“Thanks for explaining it,” said John, sincerely. “It makes sense why you keep us out, knowing your reasons.”

He stood up, crossing to the kitchen. He got a water bottle out of one of the cabinets, and brought it back to the living room, handing it to Sherlock along with a bottle of pain relievers. “Drink the glass of water on the table, take a couple paracetamol, bring the water bottle with you to your room, and go to bed.”

Sherlock nodded, for once willing to surrender to sleep.

“Good,” said John. “Then I guess I’ll say goodnight.”

“I appreciate your efforts on my behalf,” said Sherlock, in a roundabout thank-you that he saw made John smile again (if it he could see that it was a little less so than before).

_Reality dictated the truth. Caring is not an advantage._

_And yet_ , he thought again, and he’d never been so terrified and so fascinated by such a simplistic thought.

He’d never thought like that before. He’d never had occasion to question his own Rules. It was new, full of unexplored potential and unevaluated complications. And unimaginable risk.

But, maybe the thought wasn’t as new as he believed.

After all, hadn’t he stopped, now two weeks, two days, seven hours, and twenty-nine minutes ago, with his hand an inch away from John Watson, the universe suddenly full of uncertainties about the certainty of such things as rules and absolutes?

John Watson had been an anomaly from the beginning.

Was it really that hard to believe it could still be that way now?

John already had one foot on the stairs when Sherlock said, “John?”

John turned to look back. “Yeah?”

Sherlock look at him, and dared a smile. “All good Rules have their Exceptions.”

John blinked. Then he smiled, so widely he doubted he would stop for a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god Sherlock you adorable sap  
> stop it's weird when you're nice
> 
> ~
> 
> Sorry for the delay with this chapter -- my thesis tragically claimed all my time and all my energy this week. Is it summer vacation yet...? What do you mean the semester's only just started jdbksjsgkjsbdgjks
> 
> It's a long, quiet chapter, but we needed a little lull after the chaos of the Black Lotus. And a little Doctor Watson. And a little bit of these two being dorks.
> 
> To answer questions raised by the last chapter -- Mycroft, indeed, knows absolutely nothing about Sherlock's Gift. I wonder if that'll ever be a problem for them? .... Nah. >_>;
> 
> Hoping to adjust my posting schedule and build up that buffer so I don't get delayed anymore, so fingers crossed!
> 
> Thanks to all of you sticking with me here, and those of you who leave kudos and comments especially! Comments mean a lot :) <3


	18. Anomalous Contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE
> 
> [lame reasons for why i suck at the end of the chapter]
> 
> Enjoy!

By the end of the third day after the raid on the Lucky Cat Emporium, John was surprised Sherlock had ever been able to recover from injuries without being tranquilized the entire time.

At first, it was easy. The morning after the rescue, John woke early, with the intention of checking on Sherlock, who was almost always wrapped up in some case or experiment by this hour. But the flat was quiet and the living room was empty, and on further inspection, John found the other man was asleep in his room, sleeping so deeply that even John’s quiet knock on the slightly-open door didn’t wake him. Smirking amusedly, John retreated to the kitchen—leaving Sherlock to sleep—and settled in with a book and a cup of tea.

The entire day passed, and Sherlock slept.

John looked in sporadically, and found Sherlock much as he was before, sometimes rolled onto a different side or sprawled across the bed or curled in a ball amidst the blankets, but very much asleep. Offers of food were ignored or went unheard. The cups of water John left on the nightstand by the door somehow emptied, though he had no idea when Sherlock had woken up to drink them.

It was almost noon on the second day when John heard signs of life from Sherlock’s bedroom. He was, again, in his chair—or at least the chair he had claimed, the one which faced the window—when he heard a thud from down the hall. He lowered his newspaper and peered over the back of the chair to see Sherlock staggering in from the washroom, hair curled every which way and eyes narrowed darkly.

“I need a case,” he rasped, in a tone of deep loathing, before he collapsed onto the sofa and curled up there, dragging a blanket over himself so only his head stuck out.

John frowned. “You need what?”

“A _case_ ,” said Sherlock, glaring over from the sofa like a furious and very bony sofa cushion. “Or a cigarette.”

“Sherlock,” said John, with tremendous patience, “you’ve been asleep for almost thirty hours. The only thing you need is some food. And probably a few more painkillers with your tea.”

“I haven’t done anything in thirty hours,” said Sherlock, as if this was the most pathetic thing he’d ever heard. “Give me something to _do_.”

“Lie there and heal,” said John, which earned him another glare.

They went over Sherlock’s injuries, which provided Sherlock with some measure of something like entertainment. For the most part, his bruises looked even worse than before (as expected) and there was nothing that caused John any real concern. After some spectacularly whiny insistence, John showed Sherlock his own stitched shoulder, which occupied Sherlock for a good twenty minutes before the fidgeting began.

Sherlock ate.

Sherlock paced.

Sherlock languished.

Sherlock set fire to the kitchen curtains.

Sherlock sat on every piece of furniture in the living room and sighed loudly.

Sherlock set fire to the kitchen curtains again.

John threatened to tell Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock slouched irately to bed.

John was woken the next morning at five to the sound of gunfire—so close that he was convinced he’d woken up in the middle of a firefight in Sangin and not in his bedroom in 221B—and (when he dashed downstairs to find Sherlock shooting holes in the wall over the sofa with John’s gun) he spent a good ten minutes bellowing at him about gun laws and “being a dick” before Sherlock agreed that maybe he was being just a little bit overdramatic.

“I just don’t understand why isn’t Lestrade calling with news,” grumbled the Detective some time later, sinking low in his chair by the window, watching John as he sat writing in his notebook (a lot of angry scribbling). “After something this big, he’s never quiet for this long.”

“Because I told him not to ring until today at the earliest,” said John, without looking up from his writing.

Sherlock stared at him in horror. “You did _what_.”

“You heard me.”

“But,” spluttered Sherlock. “But—“

“Look,” said John flatly, looking up and fixing Sherlock with a Look. “You looked like absolute shit, and you obviously didn’t feel much better than that. You weren’t fit to be running around. And it’s a good thing to lie low after being abducted by a group of people still roaming the streets. Lestrade thought it was a good idea.”

“But _I_ don’t think it was a good idea!” fumed Sherlock, temper immediately soaring from ‘pacified’ to ‘murderous’.

“Clearly I made a good call. Would you have even woken up if Lestrade had called?” asked John rhetorically, and the Union Jack pillow that flew across the room to smack him in the face was an acceptable admittance of defeat.

John laughed, dropping the pillow on his lap. “Give it a few hours. I’m sure he’ll call soon with something for you to do. _If_ you’re feeling up to it.”

At 9:13am precisely, Sherlock’s phone rang.

The first ring had barely finished before Sherlock had seized the phone and answered it.

“Case,” demanded Sherlock, like a toddler demanding a sweet. “… I—don’t you dare ask me how I’m feeling… Yes… Yes…. _Yes_ , Gary… I don’t care what your name actually is. _Do. You. Have. A. Case._ … I’ll be there in twenty.”

Sherlock hung up, leaping to his feet and limping his way at top speed to his bedroom. “ _Finally_ ,” he said as he went, slamming the door after himself so he could get dressed.

John chuckled and kept writing.

Back to business as usual.

In less than two minutes, Sherlock emerged from his room, pulling his coat on as he went. He looked remarkably less fragile when wrapped in his black coat with the collar predictably popped, and even less so after bundling his scarf around his neck and tugging on his black gloves with most of his typical case-fueled intensity.

At the door, Sherlock paused, and turned back. “… Well, _come on_!”

John looked up. “What?”

“Are you coming?” said Sherlock.

“I’m don’t understand,” said John blankly.

Sherlock sighed. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

“Yes…?” said John.

“An army doctor.”

“You know that already. Where are we going with this?" demanded John uncertainly.

“Bet you’ve seen a lot of different injuries. Learned to identify quite a bit just by looking.”

“A fair bit, yeah. I’m sure you know even more than I do.”

"Probably seen a lot of death in your time."

John grew serious. "Yeah. Yeah, for sure."

"Lots of blood. Lots of trauma. Lots of horrible injuries."

"Yes."

"Plenty of trouble, too."

"Enough for a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even, seeing as I’m now on my second."

“Want to see some more?"

"Oh God yes."

“Then why are you still sitting there? Hurry up,” said Sherlock, vanishing down the stairs, and it only took John about ten seconds to get his shoes on, grab his coat, and hurry after.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Lestrade was waiting for them when they reached the scene. As the cab rolled to a stop—Sherlock practically throwing money at the cab driver and hopping out, with John following after—the Inspector walked forward from the line of police cars and yellow tape surrounding the area.

“You look miserable,” said Sherlock as they approached.

Lestrade’s team continued working in the background, though John saw a man and woman stop and look over at Sherlock the moment he spoke.

“Nice to see you too,” returned Lestrade, though he did look a little unsettled. “You brought John?” he added, eyes widening in surprise as he caught sight of the army doctor behind Sherlock.

“Thought it might be an interesting change of pace to have another set of eyes. I could use a medical examiner who can work with me without feeling offended every few seconds,” said Sherlock with a shrug. He lowered his voice as he reached Lestrade, so only the policeman could hear. “Not to mention keeping him in the flat for weeks on end is becoming difficult to sustain. I’m difficult, yes, but I’m not cruel. And he might be useful anyway. Is this going to be a problem?”

“No,” said Lestrade, a little wearily. “You’re the one with the magical powers to hide. You can decide what risks are and aren’t worth taking. If you get in trouble, it’s not my problem—it’s yours.”

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re being unusually blasé about things. Are you ill?”

“Let’s just say my mind is on other things right now,” said Lestrade. “Morning, John,” he added, as John drew even with them.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow again. “As in the case, or as in your wife’s affair with her personal trai—“

“The case,” snapped Lestrade loudly, cutting Sherlock off. “The case. It’s definitely the case. Let’s talk about the case and only the case.”

Sherlock decided against saying anything else at the reprimanding look on John’s face, and he nodded curtly to Lestrade.

“We’re heading in here,” continued Lestrade pointedly, gesturing to the empty-looking building behind him. “The place was recently gutted for renovations, though it’s been on hold for a couple months while the necessary funds were being collected.”

Sherlock looked at the building without much in the way of enthusiasm. “This had better be worth getting out of bed, Inspector. I told you I was only interested in things that might be relevant to Moriarty.”

“It is,” said Lestrade, with enough conviction to pique Sherlock’s interest. “Just – trust me, it is. I’ll show you.”

Lestrade gestured for the two of them to follow, ducking under the police tape that created a boundary between the rest of the street and the side alley now crawling with officers. Sherlock fell in step, and John did the same after a beat.

“Freak’s back already,” came a quiet voice behind them.

Sherlock visibly stiffened—John, following him, could see the way the line of his shoulders changed—but carried on after Lestrade. John stopped, turning his head to see who’d spoken.

It was the same man and woman who’d paused to eye them when they’d arrived, he realized. He recognized them—Anderson and Donovan. He hadn’t interacted with them much at the Lucky Cat, but it wasn’t particularly difficult to see that most of Lestrade’s people, and these two most of all, were not fans of Sherlock.

_Freak_.

John turned away from them, catching up to Sherlock and Lestrade.

“After your kidnapping, I had the sketch artist circulate the portrait of Shan you had them do,” Lestrade was saying, as he held the door into the building open for Sherlock and John. The three men entered, crossing the threshold into a large, bare room as Lestrade continued. “Sure enough, contractors come in to start work on this house this morning, and I get a call…”

Lestrade stopped, his eyes fixed on the only thing in the room, a mass lying in the middle of the floor.

Half a second later, Sherlock stopped too.

“… Oh,” he said.

“I’m guessing you know who this is,” said Lestrade, glancing sidelong at Sherlock, and Sherlock nodded.

John, standing just behind them, swallowed.

Sherlock took two steps forward, and stood to look.

Shan of the Black Lotus lay dead in the middle of the room.

A bullet hole in the center of the forehead.

There wasn’t much to take in. Blood. Position. Expression. Shattered glass across the room. Limited dust disturbance on the floor. A dropped mobile phone.

It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. Not for Sherlock, anyway.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The facts were these:

 

Shan, the late leader of the Black Lotus Tong in London, had fled the scene with her people. She had scattered them, sent them all in different directions, a diaspora of smugglers and thieves fleeing into the night with their friends and their wounded and their dead.

Shan went forth alone.

She had to protect her people. She had to take responsibility for what had happened. If _he_ were to hear of this in the news, without being told personally beforehand, the consequences could be unthinkable. But, perhaps, with explanation, he would be – merciful.

Shan found a quiet building, deserted and on a deserted street, and she made contact.

She had been standing in the room sometime during the night. With trembling fingers she had held the phone up to her ear.

And then, in the course of that call, a bullet had fired from the roof of the laundromat across the street and through the window, shattering a windowpane in the process. The shot ended her life the moment the bullet hit, ultimately coming to rest where it is now, lodged perfectly in the middle of her forehead.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Lestrade shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. “Well,” he said, “I guess we don’t need to keep looking for Shan.” He took a step back. “I have my people working outside, so we have a little time for you to do your dead people thing. Anything you can give me on this will help, and I’m sure you have questions for her about Moriarty.”

“I just hope I can get enough in one minute,” said Sherlock, still looking at Shan.

He was almost – disappointed. About this. Sure, the woman had ordered him kidnapped and then killed only a few days ago, but he was certain— _certain_ —that she could get him that much closer to finding Moriarty. Alive, she could have been persuaded to cooperate with the police, in the interest of protecting her followers.

And what had struck Sherlock most about her was not her ruthless efficiency or willingness to kill someone just to keep them quiet. It was how afraid she had been at the possibility of failure.

“You can wait outside, if this is a little too unsettling,” said Sherlock, speaking to John as he took off his gloves.

But John squared his shoulders, taking a few more steps into the room to look more closely at Shan. “I think I’m okay. Not like I’ve never seen a dead person before. I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”

John wasn’t sure how true this was. He wasn’t sure why he felt like he ought to stay. He just did. Maybe morbid interest. Or maybe just a little bit of doubt that Sherlock’s Gift was even really possible, though he was living proof.

“I… don’t mind, I suppose,” said Sherlock, frowning. He glanced in John’s direction, catching his gaze with a mute question. _You won’t be unsettled being around for this, right?_

John shook his head slightly. _Get on with it._

Sherlock hesitated for just a moment, but decided against arguing. Maybe John was stupid, maybe he was bold, maybe he was curious. In any event, it wasn’t Sherlock’s choice to make.

Lestrade turned around (he didn’t get paid enough for this magic shit, he really didn’t) as Sherlock slowly stepped forward, and crouched down at Shan’s side. His legs, still weak and stiff from his recent kidnapping ordeal, protested, and he shut those complaints down. This was what mattered. _This_ was what mattered. The case— _this_ case _, Moriarty’s_ case—was only getting bigger, and the body count was growing. The dead informant, John, the cabbie Jeff Hope’s victims, and now Shan.

And Shan might have answers he needed.

Sherlock stretched out his hand.

John, standing five feet back, held his breath.

The Detective touched the General’s hand with one careful finger.

There was a flash of golden light, and Shan opened her eyes.

Sherlock sat back on his heels, looking at her closely. “Your attempt to silence me, as I’m sure you understand, was unsuccessful.”

Shan stared at him, eyes wide. “… Mr. Holmes,” she said finally, flatly, as if she needed his confirmation that this was happening.

“Yes, General Shan.”

“So,” she said, eyes moving around the room. “I am dead. Correct?”

“Yes. But time is short and I require answers. You tell me everything you know about Moriarty,” said Sherlock clearly. “You can do so. You’re beyond his reach now.”

Shan exhaled a short humorless laugh. “Nothing is beyond his reach,” she said, eyes roving to the shattered window through which the bullet that killed her must have traveled.

“I want to help,” said Sherlock, catching a look in her eye that he recognized. After all, he’d seen it before. That fear at the mention of the name Moriarty. The fear that the fate of her Black Lotus followers was resting on her perfect execution of every move of the plan. “I _can_ help your people, even if it’s too late to help you. _Tell me_ , and—“

But Sherlock’s words were cut short as Shan moved. Shan opened her mouth to say something—what, he had no way to know—and seized his hand with enough urgency and speed that Sherlock was unable to reel back out of reach.

The second Shan’s fingertips brushed Sherlock’s hand, there was a flash of darkness, and Shan crumpled back to the floor, limp and lifeless once more.

The Detective, the Doctor, and the Inspector stood there, staring, hardly able to process what had just happened.

“Um,” managed John finally.

“… I didn’t anticipate her actually trying to touch me,” said Sherlock, still in shock. “None of them have ever done that. No one does that. Who does that?”

“Oh my God,” said Lestrade, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock touched Shan’s hand again, even though he knew it was pointless. He couldn’t bring people back a second time. That was the Rule: one touch, life; second touch, dead, forever. Sure enough, there was no second flash of light, and Shan didn’t move. She was dead—well and truly dead this time—and she hadn’t told them anything.

“None of them ever touch me,” said Sherlock again. “It—“

“So I guess we’re not going to learn anything from her now beyond what we can learn from looking at her body,” said Lestrade, thinking aloud. “Well, it’s how normal police work is done.”

Sherlock wasn’t especially listening to Lestrade.

Shan had touched him.

_He informed us that you are dangerous. He knows what you are capable of._ All _that you are capable of_ , she had said.

Could Shan have realized, in those few seconds of returned life, precisely _all_ that he was capable of? Most people, in the sixty seconds Sherlock allotted them to answer his questions, assumed the experience wasn’t real. It was a dream, it was heaven, it was a weird hallucination and they would wake up in the hospital any second now. The few that processed the reality assumed this was their special “last chance” to say anything to those they were leaving behind, never mind that a total stranger was the one speaking to them. Even the cabbie had been more amused than anything else, focused on his confession and not the circumstances of their conversation. Most of the people he brought back to life didn’t understand, and most didn’t want to. John was perhaps the only exception, and that was only after a significant amount of explanation significantly well after the typical sixty seconds.

But—could _Shan_ have realized? And if she was capable of figuring out that much… then, could _Moriarty_?

“Sherlock,” came John’s voice from somewhere nearby, and Sherlock instinctively jumped, now on high alert against any and all human contact. Especially with John.

“What?” he demanded, a little too sharply, looking up.

John was standing on Shan’s other side. He crouched down, actively avoiding looking directly at Shan. “Don’t overthink it. At least not yet.”

“Easier said than done,” retorted Sherlock.

But John cut across him. “People act weird when surprised. I understand most of the people you bring back to life don’t interact with you much, or at least don’t touch you themselves, but I get the feeling you’re neglecting the fact that I slammed your head into a coffin.”

“Twice,” said Sherlock automatically, but the knot of panic in his chest eased slightly. He _had_ been neglecting that. “I tend to consider most of the things you do as anomalous.”

“Well, I guess not _that_ anomalous,” said John, glancing down at Shan. He stood up. “She took being dead kind of well. Do they usually? I don’t think I took it well.”

“You were better than most. She was even more so. Shan did seem to be genuinely aware that she was actually dead,” said Sherlock. “More than most. Which suggests she knew she was going to die.”

Lestrade stepped forward, sensing that the gears in Sherlock’s mind were beginning to turn. “Because this Moriarty guy was trying to silence her?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Probably,” said Sherlock, standing up as well, still looking down at Shan’s still form. “Judging by the accuracy of the shot and the distance…” He gestured first to Shan’s head—the bullet hole a neat circle in the center of her forehead—and then at the shattered window through which the bullet must have traveled. “Perfectly aimed kill shot, one shot, from that kind of distance… the shooter has to be professionally trained. Moriarty seems to be able to secure anything, if he has no trouble acquiring such a good sniper. And he’s probably used this person in the past, and made his people aware of what sort of power he has at his disposal. Intimidation. Fear keeps people in line when you have an empire to run. Especially a criminal empire.”

“Fantastic. A psychopathic, Machiavellian crime lord,” muttered Lestrade. “Brilliant.”

“So we know Moriarty has to be employing some kind of off-the-grid sniper with military training,” said John.

Sherlock glanced at the Doctor, and paused. “You’re thinking something.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Depends,” said Sherlock honestly. “With Lestrade’s underlings, it’s almost always a bad thing.”

Lestrade sighed wearily. “They’re professionally trained—“

“Don’t try to tell me Anderson’s a capable tech, Lestrade, not after that time he walked all through the most important part of the crime scene with massive hiking boots on—“

“Why is it a bad thing when Lestrade’s people help?” interrupted John.

“Most of them are useless,” said Sherlock dismissively. “I don’t need useless.”

John frowned. “Am I useless?”

“What?” said Sherlock. “No, of course not. ‘Useless’ is an empty soap dispenser in the bathroom sitting there reminding people what it could be doing while doing nothing at all.”

“… You say the weirdest damn things, Sherlock,” said Lestrade finally.

But John smiled.

“So,” prompted Sherlock. “You were thinking…?”

John shrugged, burying his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “I was just thinking that this guy almost definitely has military training. And to be honest, I’ve seen a lot of injuries like that—“ a gesture to Shan’s head “—and one in particular is jumping out in my memory.”

He tugged on the sleeve of his left arm, which covered his recently stitched shoulder.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “You think it’s the same person.”

John shrugged again. “I’m biased, but anything to do with both Moriarty and snipers is going to make me suspicious. There just aren’t many guys as good as this one running around, and if he’s had military training, he’d know when and how someone like me would be vulnerable, and he’d know how to take out someone like Shan without causing a scene. Might as well check. If the bullet from me is still on file—“

“I gotcha,” said Lestrade, nodding. “I’ll have them compared and I’ll let you know as soon as I know if they’re from the same gun.”

Lestrade hurried out to talk to his people, leaving Sherlock and John behind with Shan’s body. Sherlock’s anxiety at Shan touching him of her own volition had faded somewhat, but he was still preoccupied with this new set of circumstances. The Black Lotus would be at risk now, if Moriarty chose not to take them under his wing… And, if he did, they’d be utterly dependent on him. He would be less their benefactor and more their leader.

“We should go,” said Sherlock, getting to his feet and straightening as he donned his gloves. He glanced at John. “Ready?”

“Mm.” John looked at Shan with a subtle edge of unease that gave his face a hard look to it.  “So it looks like that when you bring people back? That flash of light?”

Sherlock nodded. “It always looks the same."

John nodded too. “Okay. Weird.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “And then it flashes dark when we die again.”

Sherlock gave John a scrutinizing look out of the corner of his eye. “Yes.”

“So that’s what it’d look like with me,” said John slowly, as if it was taking considerable effort for him to grapple with the concept. “And then I’d just be dead forever, like I was supposed to be before I met you.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock again, flat and patient.

John nodded again, expression blank, and then he finally heaved a sigh and turned away from Shan’s body, walking away. “Well, fuck that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEING DEAD? AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT
> 
> ~
> 
> AND THUS I RETURN.  
> Readers, I owe you several thousand apologies for the very unexpected hiatus. I'm inarguably the scum of the earth and the best I can do is beg your forgiveness and hope the promise of no more hiatuses and a lot of impending drama is enough to make it up to you.  
> All I can say in my defense is that the end of the semester was a nightmare, and summer has proved a continuation of all the hectic stuff going on. For those who don't know, I graduated from Brown University at the end of May after a long, bloody battle with my thesis (I am a geologist) and since then have been preparing to start grad school in August as well as get some research-related things completed and some health problems sorted out.
> 
> That being said, I've got chapters in progress and a (very detailed) plan and I anticipate updates every other week for the near future, and hopefully even more frequently in about a month.  
> I'm so excited to be back and I promise to keep the chapters coming! Thanks to you all for sticking with me so long and dealing with my crazy schedule. You are amazing.  
> So to new readers: welcome! To old readers: welcome back! <3 I love you all
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and thanks for your comments, kudos, subs, and support!!! <3


	19. Inconvenient Inquiries

Sherlock and John left Lestrade at the crime scene, with the intention of giving Lestrade a chance to arrange for tests and bullet examinations while they evaluated if and how Shan’s murder changed their game plan. In Sherlock’s opinion, the loss of Shan as a source of information constituted a significant setback, but the fact that she had been murdered at least painted a more vivid image of the kind of person Moriarty must be.

Sherlock and John had left their cab waiting at the edge of the police line, and they walked straight towards it as they exited the building.

“It might be possible to identify some of the other members of the Black Lotus and bring them in officially. Or just question them on the street,” Sherlock was saying. “Then again, I’m not exactly confident that it would be possible to find more than maybe one individual, if any.”

“Might be a bit of a dead end, then,” said John. “Unless you have people who could do the looking for you.”

“Not sure it’s worth the time investment,” said Sherlock. “Or monetary, since a tracking operation of that scale would require befriending a few more of London’s amiable Homele—“

“Leaving already?” interrupted a man’s voice. Sherlock didn’t need to look to see who.

“Yes,” he said crisply, without looking.

But John, of course, did look, to see Anderson and Donovan standing where they had been before, watching Sherlock distrustfully.

“Hope you found whatever it was you were looking for, Freak,” said Donovan, her tone scornful.

“Though who knows what that would be, since he never bothers to explain anything he does in human terms,” added Anderson.

Sherlock ignored them—as he always did, really—and walked back to the cab that was still waiting for him and John at the edge of the police line.

But John paused.

“Oi!” he barked at the two officers, who started and stared at him.

Sherlock whipped around.

“How about you try for some semblance of professionalism?” said John. “At least pretend, if that’s the best you can do. Come on.”

Sherlock stared.

John gave Anderson and Donovan a full ten seconds to reply and, when they didn’t, he turned on his heel and set off after Sherlock.

“Shall we go?” he said, as he drew even with Sherlock at the side of the cab.

“What the _hell_ was that?” demanded Sherlock.

“What the hell was what?”

“ _That_.”

“What, that?” said John, gesturing back at the still-stunned Donovan and Anderson.

“Yes, obviously _that_ ,” said Sherlock.

“They’ve been getting on my nerves since we got here,” said John with a shrug, as if this answered all questions.

“They haven’t said anything to you,” said Sherlock. “They were talking about me.”

“Yes, I _know_ that,” said John, rolling his eyes. “And it’s been getting on my nerves. They’re supposed to be on duty. Lestrade gives his people free reign, and I could even understand if you being here bothers them, but you don’t get away with that nonsense when you’re a soldier. If you can’t be professional when you’re on duty, then you shouldn’t be on duty. Plus,” he added, when Sherlock continued to look mildly flummoxed, “you’re not a freak.”

“I am a freak,” said Sherlock automatically. “More than they even know, since they don’t know about the – you know, the thing I can do.”

John shrugged. “I don’t think I’d call you a freak. Obnoxious, without a doubt. Unusual, certainly. Not sure about freak.”

“The general consensus is that I am,” said Sherlock, in a blunt (and, though he’d never say it, borderline defeated) statement of the facts.

John looked at Sherlock, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Come on now,” he said. “Who’s the bigger freak here? The consulting detective, or the recently reanimated semi-immortal doctor? Just saying.”

Sherlock blinked. “But.”

“But nothing,” said John. “Now, come on. Let’s get home.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

When John and Sherlock returned to the flat, they were greeted by Mrs. Hudson, who—in spite of insisting she was their landlady and not their housekeeper at just about every given opportunity—was making them a pot of tea.

“I heard you boys rushing out this morning, and I thought I’d make sure you were properly looked after when you got back, seeing as Sherlock’s only just back on his feet,” she said, as John passed her a few mugs and Sherlock lounged around at the table to watch the proceedings. “Just this once, of course.”

“Duly noted, and appreciated,” said Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson reached over to pat him fondly on the shoulder.

“I like keeping an eye on my boys,” she said with a wide smile at the pair of them. “You’re practically family. Family that pays for the privilege, but family nonetheless.”

John smiled too. It was sweet, having someone like Mrs. Hudson to lecture and fuss on occasion in a doting way that somehow managed to not be smothering. She treated them like her children _and_ tenants, and it meant a lot. For John, who only had his sister left (his mother had died when he was young, and his father several years later), it was an unexpectedly welcome presence. And John could imagine that for Sherlock—who had disconnected from his family by choice—the existence of someone to keep a motherly eye on him was something that he didn’t consciously know he was thankful for. That seemed to be Sherlock’s general mode of being, as far as John could tell. Ignorant of how something made him feel until someone expressly pointed it out—and then, it seemed to surprise the Detective that he had feelings as much as it surprised everyone else.

Still talking with Mrs. Hudson (“you look thin, dear…”—“I’m fine, thank you”—“really?”—“yes”—“ _really_?”), Sherlock caught John’s faraway expression and frowned. “What are you thinking about over there?”

“Hm?” said John, blinking and looking over at Sherlock, coming back to earth. “Just clocked out for a minute.”

Mrs. Hudson deposited their cups of tea on the table along with a plate of biscuits. She took her own cup and a biscuit for herself and rounded the table. “Well, I’d best be off. I’m meeting Mr. Chatterjee later and I don’t want to be late… I’ll pop back up this evening and check on you.”

“We’ll see you later,” said John, with a wave. “Thanks again for the tea.”

“Just this once, dear,” replied Mrs. Hudson predictably, bustling away with a return wave. The door closed after her with a little click.

John took a big sip of tea. “Lucky to have her.”

“Mm,” said Sherlock, nibbling on a biscuit. “So what were you thinking about?”

“My sister,” answered John, shrugging. “Just when Mrs. Hudson mentioned family.”

“Ah.” Sherlock spun his cup slowly between his hands. “I understand if not contacting her is difficult for you, but I hope you understand how necessary it is. At least for the foreseeable future until the details of your murder are brought to light and addressed accordingly.”

“Oh, no, I know that,” said John, shaking his head. “To be honest, Harry’s never been much good at keeping in touch. But I do feel bad that she thinks I’m dead when I’m only an hour or two away. Assuming she knows I’m dead. You told me Molly Hooper couldn’t get in touch, and I don’t know that anyone else would have tried.” He took another sip of tea. “You don’t keep in touch with your brother?”

Sherlock let out a very loud, very sarcastic, very fake laugh and fixed John with an acutely judging look.

“Okay then,” said John, rolling his eyes. “Forget I asked.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

From there, the day fell away into the typical pattern of work. For some reason, John thought the work progressed more smoothly than usual—maybe it was the effect of having been able to escape the confines of 221B with permission; because even though John was quickly growing quite fond of the flat and the pattern of life there, it felt like a rare and wondrous thing to be able to venture forth into the world (with permission). He hadn’t been able to particularly enjoy being out and about during the mess with the Black Lotus, distracted as he was with trying to make sure Sherlock didn’t get himself killed.

John took some time to make notes about recent events—Shan’s death, what they had learned, the incidents of the day—while Sherlock sat curled in his usual chair, tapping away on his mobile as per usual.

“Sending out messages to some of my Homeless Network,” said Sherlock, when John asked some time later. “I make sure some have disposable phones so I can get in contact when I need to on short notice. They’re always happy when I do. The ones that have the time to spare to help me out always get something out of it as my way of saying thanks.”

“So you scratch their backs—“

“And then disinfect myself.”

“Charming,” said John. “So what are you having them look for?”

“For now, the other members of the Black Lotus,” said Sherlock. “Although, if I’m being perfectly honest, my hopes are not particularly high. A distinguishing tattoo doesn’t make someone easy to spot, especially when the tattoo in question is small, simple, and easily covered with clothing. And Shan will have had her people go to ground. They’ll either be hiding, or perhaps, they’ll already be with Moriarty. Who might make them his own agents. Or kill them. I’m honestly not sure which.”

John shuddered.

“In any event,” continued Sherlock, noticing the twitch but deciding not to comment on it, “it’s unclear to me if it’s worth looking for them. But I’ll do it just in case somewhere out there is someone who works for Moriarty but is willing to talk in exchange for protection. I intend to find them, if they exist, and exploit that fear of Moriarty. Without it, I don’t know that it’ll be possible to find him.”

“Are _you_ actually saying something’s impossible?” said John, eyebrows raised. “You, the champion of impossible things?”

Sherlock scowled and rolled his eyes. “That’s not at all what I said. I’m saying that ordinary methods of finding this man are out. We’re going to need something a little more drastic than usual.”

John sat a little straighter, head tilting to one side. “Drastic how?”

“I’m still working that out,” admitted Sherlock.

John laughed. “Right. I understand now.”

Sherlock glared even more. “Don’t laugh.”

“Sorry.” John wasn’t particularly sorry. “Just makes you seem a little more human, knowing you can actually be clueless too.”

“I am _not_ clueless.”

“Course you’re not,” said John idly. When Sherlock opened his mouth to issue the anticipated snarling reply, John cut across him and said, “Do you think all of this with Moriarty is going to come to a head? An actual confrontation, I mean.”

Sherlock paused, no longer glaring. “I should think so,” he replied after a moment. “If Moriarty is the spider controlling his web, then destroying the web without addressing his presence is a pointless measure. The spider can always build another web. To do so will mean investing time and energy, but the spider will do it. But kill the spider, and the web will fall apart on its own over time.” Sherlock sat back in his chair. “If we want to bring the whole thing down, and get justice for you and everyone else Moriarty has apparently seen fit to remove, we have to go to him, and bring him down. Cut the head off the snake, as the old adage says.”

“So when we find him, you want to get him caught,” summarized John. “And fast.”

“Essentially,” said Sherlock. “Though you’re oversimplifying.”

“I don’t exactly have any plan behind that statement, so to me that’s pretty much as detailed as it gets.”

“You’re lucky you have me to help you get justice for your murder, or you’d never get anywhere,” said Sherlock.

“That might be the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” said John with a bemused laugh.

“I doubt it,” said Sherlock snidely, just as his phone buzzed in his hand.

He glanced down at it.

 

_Who was the man with Inspector Lestrade at the_

_Lucky Cat Emporium? I did not catch his_

_name. –MH_

 

Shit.

Sherlock looked up, keeping his face smooth. “Do you mind if I answer this?” he said, in an unusual gesture of politeness.

“No, of course not,” said John, still smiling. “I think I fancy a cup of tea anyway. You?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” John stood and went to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock with his phone.

In many ways, Sherlock had been expecting this message sooner. Mycroft never let anything go without scrutinizing it, and John standing with him at the scene of his rescue was never going to have been an exception.

That didn’t mean Sherlock hadn’t been hoping to avoid it altogether.

But Mycroft was always prying. Especially when he was not wanted. And especially when he knew it would frustrate Sherlock.

Obnoxious bastard.

 

_I’m recovering well, thank you for asking. –SH_

 

Mycroft’s reply was quick. Sherlock could practically hear the exasperated inflection so obviously implied in the text and his own annoyance flared right along with it.

 

_Don’t be melodramatic, Sherlock. None of your_

_injuries were enough to cause lasting damage. –MH_

_But congratulations on your predictably smooth_

_recovery from your ordeal. –MH_

_Better. –SH_

_You haven’t answered my question. –MH_

_I’m really not sure I see the point. Why does it_

_matter? –SH_

_I have not yet identified him. –MH_

_Seems a bit overly obsessive on your part. I know_

_you’re fond of controlling the movements of every_

_living being on the planet, but at some point you’ll_

_have to accept the fact that you’re not God and_

_you’re doing anyone any favours sticking your_

_nose in everyone’s business. –SH_

_You’re pushing your luck, Sherlock. –MH_

_Luck pushed me first. -SH_

 

“You look like you’re about to rip your mobile in half,” came John’s voice, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts like a bucket of cold water.

Sherlock looked up. “What.”

John’s eyebrows raised. “Your fingers are pressing against the screen so hard that I’ve been waiting for the phone to crack. And you’re frowning.”

“Frowning,” repeated Sherlock.

“Yeah,” said John. “Like, really frowning.”

Sherlock put his phone down on the arm of his chair and ran his hands over his face.

“You want to talk about it?” said John, already expecting Sherlock to pick up his head to glare some more at the very idea of talking about things.

But to John’s surprise, Sherlock said, “My brother is asking about you.”

John moved to sit in the armchair across from Sherlock again, holding onto his cup of tea. “Is that a bad thing? Just – I don’t know, ignore him?”

Sherlock let out a short barking kind of laugh. “Sometimes, you say the most remarkably dimwitted things.”

John huffed a sigh. “Then perhaps explain the issue a little more.”

“How much did you interact with my brother when you came to the Lucky Cat with Lestrade?” asked Sherlock.

“Uh,” said John. “I didn’t. I didn’t even know he was there until you hobbled over to go pick a fight. Lestrade told me he’d called someone who would have access to the manpower needed to search CCTV for you and left it at that.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Mm.”

On the arm of his chair, his phone buzzed again.

 

_I’ll find out eventually. –MH_

 

John noticed. “That him?”

“Of course it’s him,” said Sherlock. He looked up at John. “I might as well tell you, since our lives might be about to get a lot more annoying with his enormous nose sniffing about.”

John tried very hard to keep a straight face, taking a sip from his mug. “Better tell me, then.”

Sherlock sat back. “Lestrade probably didn’t want to mention it was my brother because he understood that you and he shouldn’t interact. My brother is something of a… I don’t know, a criminal mastermind?”

John choked on his tea.

“A what?” he spluttered, eyes watering from hot tea down his front and up his nose.

“Maybe that was a little bit overdramatic,” commented Sherlock.

“No shit, Sherlock,” said John, setting his cup down and hopelessly trying to wipe tea off his clothes. “What do you mean he’s a criminal mastermind?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes so forcefully his entire head swiveled. “All right, fine, he’s not so much a criminal mastermind as he is a minor fixture of the British government.”

“A minor fixture—“

“By which I mean he _is_ the British government. That is, when he isn’t too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis,” continued Sherlock.

John sat back. “So, what exactly are you implying here?”

“My brother is the power behind the throne. Every throne. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

John gave Sherlock a skeptical look, which changed to one of shock when he realized Sherlock was being serious. “I’m getting the impression that him digging around this is a bad thing, then.”

“Ha,” said Sherlock loudly. “Let me tell you why. You are, in all official records, dead—and my brother _does not know_ about my Gift. He knows nothing. It is next to impossible to keep secrets from my brother but I have spent my entire life keeping this secret buried so far down that not even he can dig it back up. But with you amongst the living, he’ll naturally try to figure out who you are only to find that you don’t exist. Either he’ll confront me, or he’ll do something worse.”

“Something worse?” said John in alarm.

“Let’s not get into that right now,” said Sherlock, with a wave of his hand. “The important thing is, you’re on his radar. I’d like to get you off of it. I’m just not entirely sure how to sufficiently distract him with things more worthy of his attention. His favourite pastime is wheedling his way into my personal affairs.”

“He sounds like a delightful person,” said John, which caused Sherlock to look up in disgust to find John’s face positively glowing with sarcasm.

“If I have to do something drastic, I will. But I’m hoping he’ll get distracted by a war or a new bakery next to his mansion and he’ll just piss off. Just a matter of time,” said Sherlock. He wasn’t sure how long it would be, but surely Mycroft would go away sooner or later. Sherlock was quite certain that Mycroft didn’t care about him enough to meddle forever. He always gave up sooner or later, out of annoyance or indifference. They weren’t emotionally close enough to one another to be bothered expending much energy annoying the other.

John sighed. “Well. I guess this means I’m back on lockdown, for now, anyway.”

Sherlock could see John’s face sink a little, and he couldn’t entirely quash the wave of guilt it made him feel. “Only for the immediate future. I’ll take care of it.”

John shrugged. “It was nice to get out for a little bit this past week. Hopefully that’ll tide me over for a while.”

“Just until the storm that is my brother blows over,” said Sherlock, in what he hoped was an assuring statement.

 

_I just prefer forcing you to do things the hard way._

_It’s healthy. The frustration burns calories, and_

_I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t object to burning_

_a few more of those. –SH_

_I hate it when you pretend you’re being_

_considerate. –MH_

_Same to you. –SH_

 

“Do you really think you’re going to be able to keep me hidden?” asked John. “From your brother and whoever else might ask questions.”

Sherlock nodded and shrugged simultaneously, wondering the same question. “I should think so, yes,” he said. After a pause, he added, “And I hope I am right. For both our sakes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somewhere in an outrageously expensive mahogany paneled office in a ritzy club for unsociable assholes, Mycroft is _seething_  
>  probably crushing a cupcake in one hand on the verge of a fit of rage
> 
> ~
> 
> And finally another update!
> 
> Might as well complicate things with Mycroft... haha... Because Moriarty's not enough of a problem on his own... hahahaha...
> 
> Hoping for more regular weekly or biweekly updates from now on - I start grad school this week, but I'm hoping I still have a decent handle on my life even with that??? Maybe I'm insane. I probably am.  
> Anyway, I hope the last couple chapters haven't been too dull - the real drama will pick up again soon, I promise!
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with me, and thanks for all of your support and love last update. It made my day/week/month and it has me even more excited than I already was to get back to updating this for all of you. :D Thank you very much!
> 
> (Also, thanks to the incredible [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel) for being my beta. :D <3 Her work is amazingly insanely brilliant and you should all go check it out, btw)


	20. The Walls Have Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to my amazing beta, the brilliant [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel)!  
> Enjoy!

Sherlock’s phone buzzed early a couple mornings later.

This was, in Sherlock’s opinion, incredibly annoying, and in his annoyance, he knocked the phone off his bedside table and left it there.

When the phone buzzed again, now wedged between the bed and the table and against the hardwood, it made the entire bed buzz and it was with several death wishes for whoever it was calling that Sherlock reached his hand down and dug around until he found his phone.

Incoming call.

Who even _calls_ anymore?!

He answered. “What,” he snarled groggily.

“… Were you asleep?” came Lestrade’s voice on the other end of the line.

“That’s what people are typically doing at—“ check the clock “—seven in the morning.”

“I told the lab to call me right away and I told you I’d call you right away when I heard back. So, like, were you actually asleep just now? I didn’t know you sleep.”

“I warn you, Lestrade, I am not in the mood,” said Sherlock, unconsciously thinking of ways he could kill the Inspector and get away with it. A poisoned doughnut held promise.

“Yeah, well, the ballistics results you wanted are in. And it looks like John was right.”

Sherlock’s eyes opened wide.

“Are you sure?” he said, instantly much more alert.

“I’m pretty sure,” said Lestrade. “The bullet that killed Shan and the bullet that killed John were almost definitely fired from the same gun.”

“This is… rather good news,” said Sherlock, sitting up, running one hand through his hair. “This is very good news. This is something we might actually be able to go on.”

“Hopefully,” said Lestrade, and Sherlock could hear him flipping through several papers. “The bullets are both consistent with a standard UK military sniper rifle firing .388 Magnums. There isn’t much in the way of distinguishing striations on the bullets themselves—looks like the shooter probably used steel wool or something to modify the gun—but what’s there is a perfect match. I’m willing to bet it’s the same gun.”

It wasn’t really a surprise. The Detective had been expecting this—but that didn’t mean it wasn’t exciting. 

“I would strongly encourage you to go back through whatever unsolved cases you may have lying around,” said Sherlock. “See if there are any others were the cause of death was a .388 Magnum.”

“Good idea,” said Lestrade, his voice picking up on Sherlock’s excitement as he understood what Sherlock was implying. “I’ll assign a couple people to that. If we’re lucky I’ll have something by tonight. I’ll be in touch.”

“Likewise,” said Sherlock, and he hung up.

Sherlock rolled out of bed, tugging on his robe. He made his way into the living room, glancing around for John, and when he didn’t find him, he picked up a pillow off one of the chairs and made his way up the stairs towards the second bedroom.

He stopped at the door, opening it quietly, and located the small mass under the blankets that was John. From his position at the door a safe distance away, Sherlock drew his arm back and chucked the pillow at the spot where he estimated John’s head was.

The pillow smacked into John’s head with considerable force and a loud _FWUMP_. John lurched upright with a yell, eyes still half shut as he flailed around to look first at the pillow that had collided with him (now on the floor) and then at Sherlock. “What the FUCK—“

“Wake up,” said Sherlock flatly. “Lestrade called with news.”

“And it couldn’t bloody wait until I got up?!” demanded John, fury clearly the only thing keeping him from crumpling back into bed.

“It could, but that could be ages,” said Sherlock coolly, the irony that he had been in John’s state of mind only a few minutes before completely and utterly lost on him. “The sniper that killed you and Shan is one and the same. That’s so much more interesting than sleep.”

Sherlock turned and traipsed back down the stairs, leaving John to try to wake up enough to process what Sherlock had just said.

John lay back down, looking up at the ceiling overhead, and immediately decided to go back to sleep and deal with all of this in a couple hours.

“Also, make tea,” called Sherlock from the bottom of the stairs. “Move along, we haven’t got all day.”

“I’m going to kill him,” John informed the ceiling.

The ceiling didn’t reply, for obvious reasons; but if it could have, it probably would have been sympathetic, for obvious reasons.

 

~o~O~o~

 

After his third cup of tea and a good hour of glaring loathingly at Sherlock every time Sherlock tried to talk about much of anything, John was willing to engage in actual conversation.

“So we know it’s the same person?” said John, sitting in his chair with yet another mug of tea in his hands.

“We know it was most likely the same gun,” corrected Sherlock, meandering back and forth around the living room. In the time it had taken for John to get out of bed and wake up enough to converse, he’d dressed and gotten ready to go out. “But that would suggest it was most likely the same person. So, yes. It’s difficult to tell based on the bullets, of course—cartridges are the better way to check, since bullets are usually deformed on impact—but what markers there are on both bullets suggests they were fired from the same weapon.”

“And definitely a real sniper’s,” added John. “Sounds like standard military issue. British Army snipers use .388 Magnums too.”

Sherlock nodded, continuing to pace. “Which more or less confirms our theory that the person Moriarty uses for high-profile kills is a sniper with training and likely military ties. And it also confirms my theory that he keeps this inner circle small, if he’s using the same person to do his dirty work in two very different locations. The sniper is probably one of a few people who deal with Moriarty directly. What’s more is the sniper is being employed to kill people within Moriarty’s own network. They’re trusted.”

John sighed. “So it’s not so much that we have new information—it’s more like we have confirmed that our theories are right?”

“But knowing that they’re right means we can act on them,” said Sherlock. “It gives us direction.”

“If you say so,” said John, feeling somewhat skeptical. To him, it didn’t sound like much real progress. It wasn’t as if they had a name to look for. The sniper had military training, sure—but that just meant it was someone who was either in the military, or someone who had retired or been discharged, or just someone who’d received official training as a foreign recruit or even a mercenary. It said nothing about age, sex, heritage, looks…

“And,” continued Sherlock, sensing John was thinking something along those lines, “we know Moriarty has an easy enough time coordinating his people and organizing international efforts, if he’s able to get his sniper out to the middle of nowhere in Afghanistan and then recall him to London a matter of weeks later. So the sniper isn’t tied to anyone or anything else that requires much attention, not if they’re so mobile.”

“I suppose that _is_ something,” said John, sitting back. “Couldn’t we find out who took flights between those dates?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I doubt it. Air travel is largely closed in that region right now. Most are military flights. And land travel is equally monitored. We’re unlikely to get access to that kind of information, and we would be unlikely to find anything even if we do.”

“Oh,” said John disappointedly.

Sherlock was less deterred. “My guess is this sniper either managed to get on military transports and back out in a similar fashion, or Moriarty had contacts capable of smuggling a man in and out. Either way, I’m guessing the informant you were tending to when you died was supposed to meet with Moriarty’s sniper. Then the informant gets cold feet and tries to back out and sell his information on Moriarty to the British government in exchange for protection. But Moriarty will have known this was a possibility, if he sent his sniper as his liaison in the first place, so the sniper would be ready to take the informant down before he could share his intel. The informant wouldn’t have wanted to talk until he was already out of danger, so he’d demand to be removed from the country before talking. In any event, the only person who probably heard any significant amount of real information was you.”

John, caught up in the leap in information Sherlock had just explained, came out of his reverie and said, “But I heard less than five words and they meant nothing to me.”

“We’ve made decent headway with ‘Tell them it was M—‘ as our starting point,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, but you’re weird,” John pointed out in turn. “ _You’ve_ made decent headway. All _I_ did was _die_.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “An unfortunate detail. My point is, now we have a timeline, and we have some idea as to what to look for. And a gun is practically a name. We can trace it. I’m certain. It may take time, but I’m sure it’s possible. If we can find something a little more concrete—a serial number, a mark on one of the bullets so we can determine manufacturing information… then we might have just have the sniper within our grasp.” Sherlock paused his pacing long enough to grab his long, black coat off the hook by the door and tug it on one sleeve at a time.

“So where to first?” asked John.

“The morgue,” said Sherlock.

John blinked in surprise. “What for? There isn’t a new body. At least, not one you can talk to. Are you going about Shan?”

“Actually, I’m going about you,” said Sherlock. When John only looked confused, he added, “I’d been reluctant to go back there about your case before now because I’m well known there, and I know the staff will remember you rather well, since it was your body that up and vanished from under their noses. But now things have died down a little, and I want to go make sure I have all of the details. After all, you can only tell me what you remember from before you died. Lestrade can only tell me what was relayed to him—he’s obviously not looked into your case, since he knows where your body ended up. Lestrade’s fine and all, but he’s a bit of an idiot. He won’t have continued work on the case now that he’s aware that I’ve been dabbling. The case has, in all likelihood, gone cold. So the only way I can get more information about what happened to you between you dying and you turning up on a slab in the morgue is _through_ the morgue.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” said John. He settled in his chair, already resigned to spend the day in the flat. “Let me know how it goes.”

“I’ll be back by lunch,” said Sherlock. He paused, then added, “I’m sorry you can’t come.”

John smiled. “Actually, I don’t think me going to the morgue is a good idea anyway. You and Greg nearly had a fit when I made us go to see the cabbie.”

Sherlock decided not to ask who Greg was. “Very true.”

“I’ll see you when you get back,” said John. “Just don’t get abducted or something stupid on the way.”

Sherlock glared at John. “Hilarious,” he said, crossing to the door. “Absolutely hilarious.”

John snorted and waved as Sherlock stepped out into the hall and down the stairs. The front door closed a moment later, and John settled in, picking up the television remote and flipping aimlessly through the channels.

It only took thirty-seven seconds for the front door to fly open again, and John had barely looked around from the television before Sherlock was standing in the door.

“Uh,” said John.

“The door,” said Sherlock sharply.

“The door,” repeated John.

“Don’t be thick, the _door_ ,” snapped Sherlock, pointing down in the direction of the front door.

“… Am I supposed to know what that means?” asked John, but he got to his feet when Sherlock gestured furiously again, and followed the other man out of the flat.

Since his Gift prevented Sherlock from safely dragging John down the stairs by the arm, Sherlock was forced to resort to barreling back down the stairs, pausing once or twice to bounce impatiently on the balls of his feet. The two men exited the building—John regretting being barefoot—and Sherlock immediately slammed the door and spun around to point accusingly at the dark paint.

John looked.

“Mrs. Hudson’s going to skin you,” he said finally.

Yellow spray paint made up a handful of unusual symbols painted across the door, still drying in some places. The symbols stretched the length of the door, so large and bright that they would be easily visible from across the street, and possibly several houses down the street in either direction.

“I think Mrs. Hudson’s the least of my worries right now,” said Sherlock tersely.

“Just trying to make light of the situation,” said John, taking a step forward to look more closely at the drying paint.

“It’s a code,” said Sherlock.

“They’re numbers,” said John.

Sherlock spun about to look at him. “They’re _numbers_? And how, pray tell, do you know _that_?”

“Well, I saw them,” said John, eyebrows raised in alarm at the somewhat frenzied look on Sherlock’s face. “At the Lucky Cat after we rescued you. All of the broken items had price stickers on them with things like that written on them. I recognize them.” He gestured to the characters painted on the door. “Prices. So, must be numbers.”

Sherlock turned to examine the door again. “So it really is a code. And one from our friends of the Black Lotus, no less.”

“How are we going to figure out what it means?” asked John. “I mean, numbers are pretty vague; there must be hundreds of number-based codes. And it being a Chinese numbering system complicates things, as I’m fairly confident neither of us know any Chinese.”

“We don’t need to be able to figure it out,” said Sherlock. “I think the message is clear.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Care to interpret?”

“I mean, it’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” said Sherlock. A glance in John’s direction revealed that it was, in fact, not all that obvious. Sherlock sighed and continued, gesturing to the paint on the door, “What it _actually_ means is immaterial. The important thing is that it’s a message obviously from the Black Lotus, and it’s on _our_ _door_. It’s out in the open, and I’m meant to see it. Meaning that the real message is that I’m being watched, and I should _know_ I’m being watched.”

“I think that’s probably the most unsettling thing you could have possibly said just now,” said John dryly, taking a deep breath.

“Sorry,” said Sherlock, mouth quirking up at the edges. “But the walls have eyes. And ears.”

John groaned and put his hands over his ears. “Not listening anymore, you’re making me anxious.”

“You should be anxious. Anxiety leads to caution,” said Sherlock. “And stomach ulcers, but—“

“Great,” said John, cutting Sherlock’s train of thought off at the station of ulcers. “So the point of painting the door is to send you a personalized warning.”

“More or less,” confirmed Sherlock. “We can deduce that Moriarty has his eye on me now and doesn’t mind telling me as much. Probably to try and discourage me from getting any closer to him.”

John nodded. “Not like that’s going to deter you, of course.”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “If anything, it makes it more interesting. Moriarty’s interested, now. We just have to be more careful, too.”

“True.”

“And we know the Black Lotus are amongst his spies now, even without Shan,” added Sherlock. “We know that at least some of them are out there, and at least some of them have assured him of their loyalties. If they don’t know Shan is dead, he might be posing as her in his communications with them. If they do know Shan is dead, then he was willing to pay high for their loyalties. Or it came cheap.”

John swallowed. “So now—“

“So now we’re really going to have to make sure Moriarty doesn’t know you’re the same dead person he tried to steal from the morgue a few weeks back,” said Sherlock. “I want to know Moriarty’s secrets, not tell him mine.”

“Right.” John examined the door again. “But then again, most people don’t think ‘magic’ when they find out someone they thought was dead is, in fact, alive.”

Sherlock smiled a little. “I’ve been relying on that kind of unimaginative thinking to keep my secret for almost thirty years.”

“So we just have to be careful. I could wear a disguise. Grow a moustache.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

The door opened in front of them, to reveal Mrs. Hudson—all sixty-two inches of irritated landlady glaring intently at Sherlock. “I was just looking for you, young man,” she exclaimed indignantly, hands on hips. “Someone put paint all over my bloody door!”

“I’ve noticed. Wasn’t me,” said Sherlock. “This time.”

“I don’t want any of your attitude,” retorted their landlady, shaking a reproving finger at him.

“It really wasn’t him, Mrs. Hudson,” said John, deciding that it was absolutely better not to tell her who _had_ done it.

“Well, I’m not going to be the one washing it off!” Mrs. Hudson declared, looking at Sherlock expectantly who, in turn, looked at John.

“I’ll do it,” John volunteered, giving Sherlock a very clear ‘you owe me’ look as he did so. This mollified Mrs. Hudson enough to give an approving nod, and after a couple more reassurances that the door would be free of yellow paint within an hour, she returned back inside the house, leaving the door open after her.

“I thought you _just said_ that I’m supposed to be staying indoors,” said John accusingly to Sherlock.

Sherlock smirked. “You are. But you can lurk in the door for fifteen minutes to get a little paint off the door, right? And then resume lying low.”

“You’re a git,” John informed him.

Sherlock smirked, taking a few steps back towards the street as John made his way inside. “That’s your problem.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” said John, smiling before he retreated inside. “Now that we know the Black Lotus is watching you, I’d like to remind you once again not to get abducted.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Sherlock, turning and waving at a cab a short way down the street, which rumbled up to the curb in front of 221B. “And you, don’t get seen.”

John waved dismissively and retreated into the house (to find shoes and something to clean the door with, undoubtedly), and Sherlock hopped into the cab. The taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving Baker Street and its watching eyes behind.

So.

The sniper might be their best lead. If they could find him, they could find Moriarty. As complicated as Moriarty’s web was, however interlocked the individual threads, it only took following one critical string to reach the center.

This promised to be interesting, it really did.

The only real question remaining to them—at least, the only real question that mattered in Sherlock’s mind—was how much more digging it was going to take to get Moriarty to come out of the shadows.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The bloody paint was _not_ coming off.

John had managed to get the vast majority of it off quickly enough, but now there were faint streaks of yellow blending in with the dark blue, making the whole thing look just a little too multicolored to be passable. John shot a bit of the door with cooking spray (hopefully the internet hadn’t lied about this) and attacked the paint with his sponge, balancing crouched on his heels and muttering about lazy magical detectives and smugglers undoubtedly enjoying watching him scrub paint. Seriously, this was idiotic. Next time, Sherlock could get the paint off the sodding door himself—after all, it was technically his fault that there was a bright yellow numerical nightmare all over the door…

The click of heels and footsteps coming to rest behind him interrupted John’s diatribe. He paused, turning a little, to find a smartly-dressed woman with dark hair standing behind him, phone in hand. She was very pretty, John noted.

John hesitated.

She didn’t strike him as one of Moriarty’s people, but then again, after the events of this morning just about anything made him feel just a touch paranoid.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I was wondering if Mr. Holmes is in,” she said, sounding bored more than anything else.

“No, he’s not,” said John, standing and setting the paint-stained sponge down. “I’m his neighbor,” he continued, lying smoothly. “I could pass on a message, if you like.”

But the woman was already tapping out a message on her phone, and as she typed, an expensive-looking black car with tinted windows rumbled smoothly down the street and rolled to a halt right in front of 221B.

When the car stopped, the woman glanced up just long enough to give John a thin smile before she opened the back door. “No need,” she said disinterestedly. “If you’d please get in?”

“… I’ll pass, thanks,” said John, heart starting to race a little, very much planning to step back inside and lock the door behind him.

The woman sighed. “I’m sure you understand your position,” she said, with a very pointed little look in John’s direction. She inclined her head. “If you please.”

John didn’t move.

Mycroft Holmes came into view in the back of the car, looking coldly up at John.

John felt stupid.

And then deeply, deeply concerned.

“Do not make me make some kind of threat,” said Mycroft tersely, his tone making it perfectly clear that doing so would not require much effort.

“If you please,” said the woman yet again, still holding the door open.

John paused.

Then, taking a breath, he stepped forward and climbed into the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, I'm pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say... fuck off please and thanks?
> 
> ~
> 
> BACK INTO THE FRAY  
> THIS HAS BEEN LOOMING LONG ENOUGH
> 
> A thousand apologies for the unexpected delay between chapters! D: Starting grad school required a fair bit of schedule adjustment (also, geology as a whole is very fond of weekend-long trips into the wilderness to get covered in mud). I turned 22 and my birthday gift to myself was a thermodynamics midterm. I'm a professional at this time-management business...  
> **uncomfortable sarcastic laughter**  
> This chapter is also partly to blame, because I just could _not_ get the end of the chapter to work the way I wanted it to. I'm still not quite satisfied. You know how I like my cliffhangers all nice and neat and suspenseful.
> 
> That being said, we always knew Mycroft was going to well and truly stick his nose in everyone's business.  
> How are you going to get out of this one, John? Huh? Huh?!?! HUH?!?
> 
> With any luck, the next chapter will be along in timely fashion! AND FULL OF DRAMA AND TENSION AND MORE DRAMA
> 
> As always, your kudos, bookmarks, subs, and comments most of all are hugely hugely hugely appreciated. :D <3 Thanks so much for all of your support!


	21. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY I'M SLOW TRASH
> 
> Thanks, as ever, to my amazing beta, [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel)!

**XXI: Lies**

 

Sherlock was only just walking through the doors to St. Bart’s when his phone buzzed.

Sherlock paused and frowned as he pulled it out of his coat pocket, but he stopped frowning when he saw the text was just from Lestrade, and not someone more annoying.

 

_Where are you? Need to talk. –L_

 

Sherlock sighed, but promptly replied:

 

_At Bart’s. I can meet you in an hour on my_

_way home. –SH_

 

Sherlock was making to pocket his phone when he felt it buzz in his hand again. He raised his eyebrows.

 

_I’ll meet you at Bart’s. –L_

 

Sherlock was frowning again. They’d spoken less than four hours ago, so why on Earth did Lestrade need help already? He pocketed his phone. Probably more to do with the ballistics report. Maybe they’d missed something. Lestrade didn’t like talking explicitly about dead people related things via text. Better to look ignorant, in Lestrade’s opinion. And avoid incriminating texts whenever possible.

Sherlock put this from his mind and made his way through the familiar halls to the morgue. When he reached it, he was pleased to see that the lights were on and that the only person inside was Molly Hooper. Reliable Molly.

Sherlock opened the door and entered, turning to Molly (who was distracted with opening a new box of latex gloves) and hitched a smile onto his face. “Good morning,” he said, striving for pleasantness, and Molly jumped a good three inches and spun about.

She smiled when she saw him. “Oh, hi, Sherlock, hi,” she said, dropping the box of gloves as she went to wave, diving to pick them up off the floor, and standing up once more with substantially redder cheeks. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, trying to remember how small-talk was supposed to go. “You?”

“I’m good,” she said. “Just setting up. Did you need something, or…?”

“I was wondering if I could look into a case from a while back,” said Sherlock. “I’d started work on it before and then got… sidetracked.”

Molly nodded. “Sure, I can get things for you if you need,” she said, predictably, for which Sherlock was grateful. “What’s the name?”

“John Watson?” said Sherlock, and it felt very, very odd to pretend to have only a casual, passing interest in the name. “This was three or four weeks ago now.”

Molly bit her lip. “Oh.”

This was not the response Sherlock was used to. He backtracked through their conversation—had he said something wrong?—and concluded he’d said nothing out of the ordinary. “Oh?”

“Isn’t that the case with the soldier?” asked Molly. “We don’t have his body, you see. It – maybe Detective Inspector Lestrade mentioned it? There was a break-in and someone took the body. It was awful. Security is so much tighter now; we all have new badges and more night guards, and…”

Sherlock interrupted. “I think he’d mentioned something to that effect. It’s very unfortunate. But do you at least have his paperwork? That’s really all I need.”

But Molly shook her head, and Sherlock’s stomach sank.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she genuinely looked it. “Everything was sealed right after the body was taken. I don’t have access to anything anymore. Anything that was left was taken and all of his documentation was removed and classified. I don’t know how you’d get access now, to be honest.”

Sherlock stared at her. “ _Classified_?” he repeated.

Molly nodded. “Probably because he went missing. I’m really sorry. I can’t do anything to help with that case.”

It took Sherlock a full five seconds to process this enough to say “thanks anyway”, which prompted a good minute more of back and forth reassuring Molly that everything was fine, no worries, it’s not important anyway—when in fact everything was not fine, there were worries, and it was incredibly important anyway—before Sherlock managed to say goodbye and leave the morgue.

He shut the door behind himself and stalked away, surprise and confusion giving way to annoyance.

 _Classified_. _Classified?_ And who could possibly have wanted to do that…

Sherlock made it to the outer doors and pushed them open with just a little more force than was strictly necessary, stepping out into the parking lot. He’d get a cab and return home. Lestrade could meet him there instead, since there was no _point_ in being at Bart’s…

 _Classified_. Honestly, what the hell was Myc—

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock paused, and looked up. Lestrade was hopping out of his car, waving at him from across the parking lot. Sherlock changed course, sulking towards the policeman.

“Did you know about this?” he demanded, without preamble.

“Know about what?” asked Lestrade, obviously confused.

“Everything to do with John has been sealed,” said Sherlock furiously as he reached the inspector. “Everything. All of his records are now classified, _apparently_. Just to make sure I am well and truly frustrated. And who do you think is responsible for that? Take a guess.”

Lestrade stopped, hands in his pockets, looking unsettled. “Actually, that _is_ sort of why I’m here.” 

One look at Lestrade told Sherlock that whatever it was Lestrade had to say, it likely wasn’t going to be pleasant conversation.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. “ _Excuse me_?”

“Look,” said Lestrade. “You know I’ve talked with your brother before. I mean, I’m not exactly in regular contact with him, but we’ve talked, once or twice.”

“He sticks his nose in my business all the time,” said Sherlock sourly, and impatiently. “It makes it his business to know things regardless of whether or not anyone wants him to know. It saves me the trouble of needing to send a Christmas card, since he already knows nearly all of my business. This is nothing new. Get to the _point_ , Lestrade.”

“He makes a habit of assessing the people you work with,” continued Lestrade. “And now he’s poking around with this thing with John. He knows something is off. Way off.”

“Mycroft doesn’t know about my Gift,” said Sherlock flatly. “He has no idea.”

“But that doesn’t mean he isn’t suspicious about it for other reasons,” objected Lestrade, glancing around the car park as if concerned Mycroft was going to appear behind him and strangle him. “Suspicious enough to seal all the records and look to me for information. Without knowing you brought John back from the dead and inadvertently uncovered a multinational underground criminal empire, it just looks like you’re poking around a case that involves the stolen body of a dead veteran and a guy who looks a hell of a lot like said dead veteran, and _somehow_ that’s enough to get you abducted by smugglers. This doesn’t look good no matter how you spin it and things are starting to get out of hand. I can keep this quiet on my end, but not with Mycroft involved.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. It all certainly sounded more ostentatious than it could afford to be. People didn’t need to know about his Gift to know something was amiss…

“So Mycroft came to talk to you,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Lestrade nodded. “He came to ask about John. Who he was, where he came from, what his involvement is with you, you know. All of it.”

Sherlock ground his teeth. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him John’s a friend. I said he’s new in town and he happened to be the concerned neighbor who noticed your absence, and that I brought him along because he volunteered and happened to have a medical background.”

“Good.”

“But I doubt he believed me,” added Lestrade.

“Of course he didn’t,” said Sherlock.

“Listen, Sherlock, my job is on the line,” said Lestrade. “You know how much I rely on you with difficult cases, but bringing you in as a consultant is already toeing the line. If people start looking too deeply into things, and God forbid they figure out your dead people thing—“

“How would people figure that out?!” demanded Sherlock.

“Just—“ Lestrade looked guilty. “Until your brother stops watching your every move trying to figure out what’s going on with this Moriarty case and with John, I can’t help you. If I’m out of the job, then so are you, so my hands are tied. Your brother could make life very difficult for me if he thought it would help him get his way. And you’re going to have to figure out some way to get him to drop this if you don’t want him bringing this to your doorstep.”

The thought of Mycroft bringing anything to his doorstep is enough to make Sherlock cringe, and it only takes him half a second to realize this is exactly the sort of thing Mycroft would do.

“I’ll figure something out,” said Sherlock. “Move John, or… I’ll figure it out. Until then, consider my services suspended. I’ll contact you when I’ve taken care of it.”

Lestrade looked unsure, but he nodded slowly.

Sherlock and Lestrade parted ways, Sherlock walking back to the street to flag a cab.

Everything was moving to surround him. From every angle, he was under scrutiny, and it was only now becoming clear how dangerous that could be. It was difficult enough keeping Moriarty and his network at bay; keeping Mycroft out was an entirely different beast.

But John hadn’t asked to get involved in this. Sherlock had gotten him involved, for better or worse, when he’d let one minute pass unchecked. So now, John’s life was his responsibility. Whatever the consequences.

 

~o~O~o~

 

As soon as the car door closed, Mycroft’s secretary rounded the car, climbed into the front seat, and closed her door. The car started off down the street, John looking out of the window in surprise.

Mycroft said nothing.

The car rumbled down the street and turned onto a main road, leaving 221B behind with no signs of circling back.

John’s thoughts were limited.

Very limited.

In fact, his thoughts could be summarized in two monosyllabic words:

_… Well. Shit._

“How long is this going to be?” said John finally, when minutes passed and Mycroft said nothing, a silence slowly enveloping the car. “I might have left the kettle on.”

Mycroft looked at him coldly. “That,” he said, “is entirely dependent on you.”

John blinked. “Great,” he said, feeling apprehensive and cross at the same time. “Then let’s make this quick, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft. “To business. I’d like you to explain to me what _exactly_ is the nature of your relationship with my brother.”

John sat a little straighter in the seat, his hands lightly clenched into fists in his lap. He’d never felt so defensive in his entire life. Everything Sherlock had told him about his brother flashed through his mind.

_With you amongst the living, he’ll naturally try to figure out who you are only to find that you don’t exist. Either he’ll confront me, or he’ll do something worse._

Was this the something worse?

How is this going to be worse?

The only thing John knew is that Sherlock wasn’t going to bail him out of this one. He couldn’t. It was John’s responsibility to protect Sherlock’s secret. Whatever the consequences.

John looked at Mycroft, trying to match his coldness. “I might be wrong… but I _think_ that’s none of your business.”

Mycroft’s tone, if anything, got colder. “It could be.”

John frowned. “It _really_ couldn’t.”

“It could be,” said Mycroft again, “if you are a permanent fixture.”

“Have you interrogated everyone living on Baker Street like this?” asked John, the ominous inflection to everything Mycroft did making him angry, rather than scared. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson loved this.”

Mycroft ignored him. “I have my reasons for asking. My brother and I rarely see eye to eye, but that does not mean I do not act in his best interest.”

“Well, I’m sure he would appreciate it more if it was with his knowledge,” said John. “If it really is in his best interest.”

Mycroft gave John an icy look. “I don’t intend to debate how best to stop Sherlock from getting in over his head. Especially not with someone who lies at the root of the problem.”

John sat back, resentment bubbling in the pit of his stomach in spite of his efforts to keep calm. “I’ve got to admit, I’m not sure I buy that you’re entitled to know all of my business just because Sherlock doesn’t feel like sharing. You don’t know anything about me, as far as I’m concerned, and I barely know you past your name—which, I’ll add, I learned from Sherlock, and not you. Frankly, I don’t see why you and I have any reason to interact. You have no right to badger me like this.”

Mycroft looked John up and down, and John thought he looked just a little bit approving, in a grudging way. Mycroft didn’t seem like the sort of person who was argued with on a regular basis. John figured it was about time someone did.

“I have reason to believe there are currently some outstanding security risks at 221B Baker Street,” continued Mycroft. “To which you are party.”

John crossed his arms. “Do you ever say anything straightforward, or are you going to just keep dropping hints until I figure out what it is exactly you’re accusing me of?”

“I’m giving you an opportunity to explain yourself. It’s your choice to play dumb.”

John opened his mouth to reply, but the car slowed, and finally rolled to a halt along the curb outside a stately looking building. John looked around the street. He didn’t recognize the place, but it was certainly upscale. It had the air of a banker’s office or some expensive club.

The secretary got out of the car and opened Mycroft’s door. Mycroft got out as well, and paused on the sidewalk, looking at John. “Let’s move this conversation inside.”

John looked at the building, and then at Mycroft. “And if I refuse?”

“You won’t refuse,” said Mycroft blithely.

John shot a glance at the secretary—who was on her phone, and seemed to have forgotten he was even there—and hesitated, before swearing under his breath and climbing out after Mycroft.

The interior of the building was as stately as the exterior, with everything made out of marble or mahogany. John followed Mycroft inside, looking around as he went. He had absolutely no idea where he was, though he could guess this was probably where Mycroft worked. Some sort of private office, then. A few other people were milling around the lobby as well, but none of them said a word, or even noticed John and Mycroft entering. John looked at them, waiting for something to happen, or even just for someone to say hello to Mycroft just to break the oppressive silence, but no one did. Neither, for that matter, did Mycroft.

Mycroft made his way along a hall, and entered one of the rooms. John followed, and shut the door after them after a final glance at the hall.

Mycroft made his way to the far end of the room, sitting behind a large desk.

“Where are we?” asked John finally.

“The Diogenes,” said Mycroft, as if this should somehow have been obvious. “While the car is better suited for avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, I suspect this may be a more serious conversation. And if I am correct, this will suit us better.”

John said nothing, though he raised an eyebrow.

The office was as large and pompous as the rest of the building, and looking around it, John got the distinct impression that Mycroft did not bring a lot of people here for a chat. The walls were lined predominantly with bookshelves and fancy looking filing cabinets, leaving room for the occasional soulless painting and a solitary window. A small pot of rather miserable-looking, wilting pansies sulked on the windowsill.

John found himself rather sympathizing with the pansies, as he would be willing to bet that, if the plant had the means, he and it both would like nothing better than to smash the window and flee down the street.

“Sit,” said Mycroft.

John looked around and noticed a chair in front of the desk. He sat, hands in his lap. “Your plants could use some water,” he mumbled.

“Someone will see to it,” answered Mycroft carelessly, opening a file folder before looking back at John, resting his arms calmly on the desk in front of himself.

They eyed one another for a moment.

“So,” said John, licking his lips anxiously but sitting up very straight, shoulders back. “Let’s take care of this quickly. I have places to b—“

“You don’t have anywhere to be,” interrupted Mycroft. “You aren’t employed. You have no source of income. You don’t collect any kind of welfare. You barely even leave Baker Street. You have no obligations, social or otherwise.”

John scowled. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Hardly,” said Mycroft loftily. “But you don’t receive any mail, and you don’t go out.”

“Oh, so you spy on me and search the mail.” John crossed his arms. “I’m amazed you even need to talk to me, considering you seem to know a hell of a lot about my daily life.”

“My brother,” said Mycroft curtly, “is known in certain circles for his deductive insight. While Sherlock and I are quite different in some respects, you’ll find that I am no less observant.”

“You two must be a blast at parties.”

“And yet,” continued Mycroft, “I’ve found you are quite difficult to identify. In fact, as far as I can tell, you don’t exist.”

John feigned confusion. “Clearly I exist.”

“But with no job, no revenue, no mail, no mobile phone, and almost no human contact,” said Mycroft. “You’re beginning to seem like something of a ghost. I have yet to learn your name. Though I believe Lestrade said it was…”

“John,” cut in John flatly.

“John…?” prompted Mycroft, raising one delicate eyebrow.

“Just John,” said John coldly. “Considering you _still_ haven’t bothered to properly introduce yourself, I’m not feeling much inclined to do better.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

John’s hands clenched in his lap.

“Well, _John_ ,” said Mycroft, emphasizing the name, “you don’t seem to work at present, and with nothing else as a means of supporting yourself, that alone raises a few questions.”

“Plenty of people are unemployed.”

“Yes, and I doubt many of them move into apartments on Baker Street,” said Mycroft. “Bit outside your pay grade, I think, particularly if your pay is nothing.”

John felt cornered. What was he supposed to do, invent an entire false identity while sitting in this office? “Direct deposits are a thing that exist.”

“Don’t try to play me off like you would any other idiot on the street,” said Mycroft coldly, and John shut up. “You told me when I dropped by the scene at the Lucky Cat Emporium that you’re a friend of Inspector Lestrade’s. Lestrade also informs me you’re Sherlock’s new neighbor.”

“Both are correct.”

“But Inspector Lestrade could offer no clues regarding your background,” added Mycroft. “He mentioned medicine.”

“I’m a doctor, yeah,” said John, seeing no way to lie.

“And you lived abroad before now?” said Mycroft.

John looked at him, frowning. It figured Mycroft was as weirdly deductive as Sherlock. It figured he had to be able to tell everything about John from one look. The chances of lying and getting away with it were dwindling before John’s eyes. Everything he said felt like another nail in the lid of his coffin.

Metaphorically, that is.

But still.

“Yes,” he said shortly.

“In the Middle East.”

“Yes.”

“But you trained here.”

“Yes.”

“In London, I imagine?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft sighed. “A British doctor trained here and transferred to the Middle East, before returning, without a job, to live an isolated little existence in an overpriced apartment. Tell me, what were you doing in… Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” said John automatically, tone approaching subzero at the stream of deductions. It was impressive when Sherlock did it. It was infuriating when Mycroft did. It didn’t matter how similar the Holmes brothers were; John had already formed very different opinions of them. “I was working with Doctors Without Borders.”

Mycroft shook his head ever so slightly. “No, you weren’t.”

John grit his teeth, throwing his hands up in the air. “How about you just tell me what it is I’ve been doing, then? If nothing I have to say is good enough for you or if you’re going to argue with every sodding thing I say, there’s no point in pursuing this line of conversation. Why even bother asking me if you’re going to shoot down every other word coming out of my mouth?”

Whatever Mycroft said, it was John’s responsibility to deal with it. He could argue his way out of here if he had to.

He should have known better than to think he could go unnoticed while living with Sherlock. And he should have been better prepared. It was his life, after all—but it had never _really_ occurred to him, until now, that just living his life, that just _being John Watson_ , wasn’t a safe option anymore. He could figure out what to do next with Sherlock. First, he just had to get the hell out of here without ruining Sherlock’s life in the process.

“I am giving you an opportunity to unburden yourself,” said Mycroft. “I know you are lying, and I can tell you now, lies are not to your advantage here. Allow me to caution you. This is your last chance to make this easy.”

“You know what,” said John, sitting back in his chair. “Let’s just make this difficult.”

The expression on Mycroft’s face said that he’d been expecting as much. Maybe he was enough like Sherlock that he could tell from John’s face, body language, and voice that John was about as happy to be here as the dead flowers in the window. And a far cry more vocal about his grievances.

“Your choice,” said Mycroft.

“Good,” snapped John, bracing himself for anything. At least, he hoped so. “First time I’ll have made a choice since you swooped in.”

“I’d like your honest response, then, if you don’t mind,” said Mycroft, his demeanor immediately more businesslike, sharper, shrewder.

He produced a small sheaf of papers from the file folder on his desk. A black and white photo had been attached to the front page with a paperclip. Mycroft set the papers down between them, turned so John could see the picture.

“Does this man look at all familiar?” he said.

John looked at the photograph.

Then he stared at the photograph.

His hands, clenched into fists in his lap where Mycroft couldn’t see them, twitched.

It was a photograph of himself, from the shoulders up.

On a slab in the morgue at Bart’s.

Dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's internal monologue:  
> ................................................... OH _SHIT_  
>  ~
> 
> I'm so sorry for the unexpected delay between chapters - October turned out to be a pretty brutal month in terms of work. I have no good excuses, only terrible/predictable ones, so all I can do is beg your forgiveness and hope this chapter is worth the wait.  
> ~  
> EDIT: slight delay with the next chapter. Let's just say Mycroft has proved a complicated ass and some traveling has set me back. It's coming, I swear!!! TT^TT  
> ~
> 
> Anyway.  
> It figures Mycroft can't stop himself from getting involved.  
> How John gets out of this one...  
> I mean, we all knew Mycroft isn't the type to go unprepared for an interrogation.  
> And seriously, John, your mugshot is all over the morgue. This is what happens when you mysteriously vanish posthumously. People get suspicious. 
> 
> Thank you all so so much for sticking with me! It means a lot! <3  
> And thanks for your kudos, subs, bookmarks, and comments!


	22. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT'S THIS  
> A CHAPTER  
> HOLY CRAP IT'S ABOUT TIME
> 
> I hope you all can remember where we left off because it's about to get crazy.
> 
> As always, thanks to my amazing beta [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel)!

John stared at the photograph.

After all, he had _been_ dead, and he had _seen_ dead people, but he had never seen himself dead.

Now, presented unexpectedly with the visual proof that he had been very much dead only a few weeks ago, he found it made him feel sick.

And angry.

John shoved the papers back across the desk at Mycroft in one fast, jerky movement. “What the _fuck_ are you playing at?” he spat, looking at Mycroft with a newfound fury.

“So you admit this is—“ started Mycroft.

“Photoshopped? And sick? Yes,” said John. “As scare tactics go, this really takes things to a whole new level.”

“Photoshop,” repeated Mycroft.

“Photoshop.”

Mycroft gave him a withering look. “You and I both know that this is a genuine photo of you. An original, and rather incriminating, photo of you.”

“Incriminating,” echoed John.

“Incredibly so.” Mycroft tapped the photo on the desk idly. “I acquired this image from the morgue at St Bart’s here in London. The John in this photograph is, quite clearly, dead. Which makes you being here in front of me, not dead, rather intriguing. Indeed, the John in this photograph was killed in the line of duty, overseas—an army doctor in Afghanistan, as a matter of fact. But I’m sure you know that already.”

“How would I know that already.” John would have expected Mycroft to look annoyed that he consistently refused to cooperate with Mycroft’s deductive leaps, but Mycroft looked less annoyed and more amused, like this was a children’s game that John just couldn’t figure out how to play.

“Because there are two possible ways for me to have a photograph like this,” explained Mycroft, picking up the photo and holding it up. It took an unexpected amount of willpower for John to both not look at it and not look away. “Either you’re the man in the photograph, or you’re trying to be.”

John swallowed, trying to think. “… Or.”

Mycroft frowned slightly. “Or?”

“… Photoshop.”

Mycroft dropped the photograph back on the desk with an air of exasperation, and folded his hands in front of himself on the desk. “Your persistent nonchalance is admirable, it really is. But more than that, it’s pointless. Your opportunity to refute anything I have to say has now passed. Now, you’re going to listen and decide how you might want to amend your story. Because what you have to say when I am finished will determine _exactly_ how this plays out for you.”

John waited for the axe to fall.

Mycroft sat back with a very tiny, very fake smile. “As I said a moment ago, there are only two possible explanations. Either you are the dead man in the photograph, or you are trying to be. Now, the dead man in the photograph is one John Watson, a military doctor, stationed and killed in Afghanistan. You seem to match the profile. You look like him, you conduct yourself like he would, and you’ve lived and worked at the very least similarly to him. But he’s dead.”

“You’ve made that very clear,” said John quietly. “But if he’s dead in a morgue, then his body being there and my body being here would sort of suggest that I. _Am_ _not_. _Him_.”

“But his body is missing,” said Mycroft. “Which I’m sure you also already know. So, there is no body to compare. There’s just you.”

John said nothing. There was no point in saying much of anything.

“To my mind, the only thing to investigate is who you are, and—arguably, more importantly—what it is you want with Sherlock.” Mycroft gave John a pointed look, voice clipped. “Whatever it is you are involved in, one thing goes without saying: it isn’t legal. If you’re impersonating the dead Watson, then you’re an ambitious ghoster, but one who has finally run out of places to hide. Identity theft is no laughing matter, especially not in this instance. At the very least, you can easily be charged with fraud by false representation. Identity theft of a dead soldier. And one of rank, no less.”

John could feel the tide of the conversation turning, the curious waves of questioning becoming a violent undertow promising a slow and merciless drowning. “Hang on—“

But Mycroft didn’t pause. “Not to mention the sensitive nature of the circumstances surrounding this man’s demise. His death might not be unusual, but he died in the course of his duty, in an active warzone, responding to a situation of national importance. You’ve taken advantage of a soldier with the potential for posthumous decorations, and I haven’t even touched on your possible reasons for doing so.”

Mycroft lifted his head a little, looking down his nose at John, and continued, “Unless, that is, you _are_ the man in the photograph, meaning this is a case of pseudocide. That is, your death was faked. In which case we have an entirely different problem on our hands. Namely, there’s the issue of motive.”

Somehow, John hadn’t considered this.

He had not had time to consider much of anything, but somehow the fact that (to someone who had no idea of the truth) this looked like an elaborate plot hadn’t occurred to him.

Of course Mycroft wouldn’t suspect magic, or whatever Sherlock’s ability to reanimate the dead was. Of course he wouldn’t think it could be something like that.

He’d suspect it was all a lie.

He’d suspect it was all a lie, and he would believe that the lie threatened Sherlock’s career, reputation, and—maybe, to someone who had no idea of the truth—his life.

Sherlock had just barely escaped death at the Lucky Cat. Mycroft could connect the dots however he wanted, and John would always be the anomaly. The source of the problem. And he would suspect something sinister wrapped up in nice legal terms, and he would certainly not suspect magic.

John was a threat in Mycroft’s eyes. And that was it.

John had barely opened his mouth before Mycroft plowed on relentlessly.

“I’m inclined to believe this is the case, considering you have appeared and a body has disappeared,” said Mycroft, his manner gaining an edge of distaste. “I really must applaud you, therefore, on your ability to convincingly fake your own death while in the field. Considering there was no time to perform an autopsy, you were able to return to England without complications, and then spirit yourself away. And now you’re involved with Sherlock, who is for whatever reason aiding and abetting your deception. You can imagine that the potential charges you could be facing have just become much more severe. Desertion seems obvious. Deserting in the middle of active service. Malingering, potentially, considering you would have had to fake a fatal bullet wound just to get out of Afghanistan. Falsification of records. And then we _must_ consider treason.”

John wasn’t trying to look clueless or calm or unfazed anymore, and he didn’t care.

‘Treason’ wasn’t a throwaway word. Not to him. Just a few weeks ago he’d been killed more or less in defense of his country. And yet to someone like Mycroft, it looked like he’d done just the opposite.

“After all,” said Mycroft. “Why, on that particular mission, would you have chosen to fake your death? Are you working with someone? Spying for someone? Or perhaps just simply actively undermining the efforts of intelligence agents. And then, if your reasons for faking your death are noble, as you’ll certainly try to argue, why not go to the police? The government? Your superiors? No, instead you seek out the help of a private detective and try to fall off the grid. Your actions reek of espionage. Crime.”

“This is ridiculous,” said John, without any feeling to it. How was he supposed to defend himself against something like this?!

“And I have yet to begin to speculate on what you’re doing in London, and why it involves my brother,” said Mycroft coolly. “So let me be clear. You’re going to want to tell me exactly what the nature of your business with him is, if you want to get out of this.”

John swallowed. “… I don’t have anything to say.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “No?”

John shook his head very slightly. “No.”

“Do you understand quite what you’re doing?”

The details didn’t matter much to John. What he was doing was keeping Sherlock’s secret. After all, John thought, Sherlock was all he had. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, he would still be dead, and no one would have thought twice about it.

The only reason his death won’t have been for nothing is because of Sherlock. Defending him now, regardless of the cost, seems right. It _is_ right.

The truth wasn’t his truth to tell.

Then Mycroft said, when John remained silent, “In any event, it ends now.”

John hesitated. “What ends now?”

“Your affiliation with Sherlock,” said Mycroft flatly. “You can’t imagine I’m going to allow this to continue.”

John’s stomach dropped.

_Either he’ll confront me, or he’ll do something worse_ , Sherlock had said.

John sat forward. “Stop. Just stop, for one whole second. You don’t know anything about me—no, you don’t,” he added, as he saw Mycroft’s mouth open to speak. “And no matter what, you can’t intimidate me like this.”

Mycroft sat back and considered John for a moment. “Let me be clearer. I’m giving you the opportunity to disappear of your own accord, or I will make you disappear.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Call it whatever you like,” said Mycroft, in a tone of absolute disinterest, waving a hand. “My brother is relatively autonomous. Solitary. He operates independently, in everything he does. So it would naturally catch my attention if he begins associating with someone on a regular basis, _especially_ one of questionable background. Inspector Lestrade is one thing. That’s a business association. But you are something completely different. And whatever you are, it’s nothing good. I want you gone.”

“I’m no one. I’m—“

“A problem,” said Mycroft.

“A friend,” countered John.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that he is capable of having.”

John stood. “You’re a dick. And I’m done.”

Mycroft didn’t move. “You appear and within days my brother is kidnapped, and almost dies. You’re at the scene when he’s recovered. He’s hiding you, because he knows you will arouse suspicion of foul play. You’re _a problem_. My brother doesn’t have friends or associates. To my mind, the only question is whether he’s willingly gotten himself involved in whatever scheme you’re piloting or you’re blackmailing him.”

“Blackmailing him?!”

“It’s theoretically possible. If you have a better reason for him to associate with someone like you, feel free to explain.”

John couldn’t. He couldn’t say anything.

“… I’m just a friend,” said John finally, still on his feet with his hands now deep in his pockets.

Mycroft shook his head yet again. “No. Sherlock might be helping you of his own accord because he thinks he can work around the law, or you’re forcing him to. Personally, I don’t care about the answer. Either way it places his entire career at risk. As well as the integrity of entire divisions of Scotland Yard, if you’ve gotten them involved. If this came to light, that someone as questionable as you had managed to con the police and Sherlock, their careers would end. There could be criminal charges against them, even. My brother may be willing to play with fire, but I’m not. I’d rather take this to the source—to you, and give you the option of disappearing now and forever of your own free will, or I will see to it that you effectively drop off the face of the Earth.”

John held his breath.

Maybe he was a danger to Sherlock. Maybe being around him—when he ought to be hiding, when he ought to be dead—did put Sherlock at risk. But… surely, he should be with Sherlock, until they reached the end of the case. Because friends protect people, and John knew he could at least try to do that much.

John shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”

The office door opened suddenly with a loud bang. John and Mycroft both turned quickly to look around.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, face pale, hair wild, and eyes narrowed.

No one made a sound.

The Detective took one step into the room and slammed the door behind him with so much force that the windows shook in their frames.

“Ah,” said Mycroft simply.

John’s heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to race with relief or stop dead at the sight of Sherlock. He raised a hand, taking a step in Sherlock’s direction. “Let me explain—“ he started.

But Sherlock strode forward, without even looking at John. He stopped in front of Mycroft’s desk, beside John, and it was taking nearly all of his self control not to flip Mycroft’s desk in order to punch his brother in the face.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” said Mycroft, in a tone of voice that suggested this was anything but a pleasant surprise.

“You had _no right_ ,” spat Sherlock venomously. He was positively _shaking_ with rage.

John had never seen him angry like this. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen anyone angry like this.

But Mycroft didn’t so much as blink. “I have a right to take an interest in my own brother’s life. Especially when you seem to have so little regard for your personal safety.”

Sherlock slammed a hand down on the desk, right over the photograph of dead John. “You had _NO RIGHT_ ,” he said again, voice rising to a yell.

“You’re fortunate my office is soundproofed, so you can get this little tantrum out of your system,” said Mycroft.

“Sherlock—“ tried John again. What could he do? Other than warn Sherlock what Mycroft thought…

Sherlock had eyes only for Mycroft, glaring daggers at his brother, and he hissed, “I have never once invited you to poke around in my business. If you have a problem, you take it up with me, but don’t you _ever_ think I will forgive something like this. I have already told you to stay out of my way. This is the last time I say it. Now, I’m leaving, with John, and you will stay the hell away from both of us.”

“And why should I?” asked Mycroft, and his voice had taken on a new coldness.

Sherlock’s expression was dark, and just as cold. “Because I _don’t_ _need you_.”

“In this instance, I disagree,” said Mycroft.

“This is why we don’t talk,” snarled Sherlock. “This is why you and I have an unspoken agreement that we stay out of one another’s lives. Because you’re sure you know so much better than I do.”

“Oh, don’t be naïve,” said Mycroft. “You had to know I would get involved the second Lestrade had to call me to help save your life at the Lucky Cat Emporium. And you had to know I would take notice when someone as questionable as he is—“ He pointed an accusing finger at John. “—has something to do with it.”

“Then you should have come to me,” retorted Sherlock.

“I tried.”

“Not hard enough.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “As usual, Sherlock, you deny there being a problem, and I have to get you out of trouble when you’re in over your head, which you _clearly_ are—“

“I’m not a child!” yelled Sherlock. “You haven’t gotten me out of trouble in years. Decades.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Sherlock looked away. “I never _asked_ you to get me out of trouble.”

“That I will admit. But—“

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, looking back up at Mycroft once more. “I never asked you. I don’t need your help, and I don’t want it. If there is something you ought to know, I’ll send a postcard. A nice photo.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and picked up the photo of John from the morgue, tossing it at Sherlock. “Then do me a favour and start with this one.”

Sherlock caught the photo, looked at it, and froze.

“I told him it was photoshopped,” offered John, very quietly.

Sherlock ignored him. He dropped the photo back on the desk. “I see.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”

“Spit it out,” Sherlock snapped. “I know you have ideas. Concerns. Spit it out.”

“Concerns,” repeated Mycroft. “Yes, some rather significant concerns.”

“So. Spit it out.”

Mycroft stood up so he and Sherlock could stare one another down over the desk. “Fine. I think he’s got something on you—“ Once again Mycroft stabbed a finger in John’s direction “—be it your drug abuse history or a mishandled case or any number of things. And now you’re trying to help him get away with faking his death, and committing major fraud or treason or God knows what else, so you can keep working cases with the Yard without being screened and treated like any other drug addict.”

It felt like a slap across the face.

“Completely wrong,” snarled Sherlock, temper rising past the point of control. “But thanks for reminding me that you don’t actually know me at all.”

“I do know you. That’s the problem.”

“No. You don’t.”

“Really?” demanded Mycroft, face red. “Do you have a better explanation for John Watson being here?”

“He’s here because I can bring people back from the dead, Mycroft!” Sherlock flung the words across the room before he could stop them.

John stared.

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut, all the color draining from his face.

Mycroft scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Sherlock,” he snapped impatiently.

Sherlock said nothing.

John watched him in horror.

“Sherlock,” repeated Mycroft.

Sherlock couldn’t speak.

For twenty-five years, seven months, two days, twenty hours, and sixteen minutes, Sherlock had said nothing.

And with ten words, he had broken the first Rule.

Sherlock couldn’t begin to guess why he had told the truth. He did not know what had made him say it. Why he had wanted to. Why he had let himself.

“… Sherlock?” said Mycroft, hesitating.

But he had.

And as he saw it now, he had two choices.

Go back, or move forward.

For the first time since entering the room, Sherlock looked at John.

John was staring at him, his expression shocked and terrified and awed all at once. John Watson, the once-dead army doctor who managed to break every Rule without even trying.

This case with John had changed everything, so maybe it was right for life to keep going and keep changing.

Maybe it was just time. Time to tell the truth. Time to risk everything. Maybe Mycroft was right and this case was bigger than he was. Perhaps he knew deep in his subconscious that right now it was him and John against the rest of the world, and that it didn’t always have to be.

But whatever the reason, John stood next to him, staring, but silent, trusting him to make the right choice.

So. Forward or backward?

Sherlock turned back to Mycroft.

“Because,” he said again, this time speaking every word with care, his very life hanging on each syllable, “I can bring people back from the dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft: lol  
> Mycroft: lol nice one bro  
> Mycroft: lol but like  
> Mycroft: lol be serious bro  
> Mycroft: lol seriously stop wasting my time with this magical zombie miracle nonsense  
> Mycroft:  
> Mycroft: why is no one else loling
> 
> ~
> 
> I LIIIIIIIIIIIVE
> 
> I'm so, so very sorry for the delay with this chapter. In my defense... this was a very tough chapter to write. So tough, in fact, I wrote and rewrote it about five times before I was satisfied with Mycroft. I wanted Mycroft and John to have time together to form a bond of everlasting dislike, and I wanted Sherlock to be in a position where, for once, telling the truth about his life and his powers made sense. And that ended up being tricky to get right...  
> BUT I HOPE IT WAS WORTH IT FOR THE **_DRAMA_**
> 
> So now the question is, how is Mycroft going to take this news...?  
> I bet he laughs himself sick
> 
> The advantage of this chapter being so late is that the next two (yes, two!) are almost done as well. I'm hoping for biweekly updates at the very least for the time being, and maybe even weekly if I can get my act together. Bear with me guys, grad school is hard TT^TT
> 
> Thank you all so much for your support and feedback and patience most of all! You're amazing and it means a lot to me <3 I love writing this story so I promise you, no matter how much life interferes, I'm finishing this thing  
> hopefully before I'm 80 but like whatever


	23. Things Best Left Deleted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An on-time update! For once, I keep my promises. ^_^;
> 
> Thanks, as always, to my amazing beta [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel)! Her help was greatly needed with this chapter.

At eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and fifty-one minutes of age, Sherlock had decided he would never tell anyone about his Gift. Sherlock had been sure, even then, that something like this would be almost impossible to believe. It was hard enough for Sherlock to believe it—after all, magic of any kind requires a willingness to accept that there are, sometimes, phenomena that simply have no explanation. That there are puzzles that cannot be solved, and questions that have no answer. He’d known that, even if he did tell, it was possible that no one would ever believe him.

But if they did, Sherlock knew he would be exposing them to incredible temptation. And incredible danger.

Even as a child, Sherlock could see how dangerous it would be, to be close to people, to love them too much to let them go, and to have the power to bring them back.

So, he’d kept his secret. Accidents and anomalies had brought people into his world, in the form of a bumbling police officer and a dead army doctor, but he had never chosen to bring people into his world. Before John, he had been alone. Now, the walls were crumbling.

And he’d just smashed through the biggest one.

Sherlock had never cared much about the arts, but somewhere in his mind he had filed away a piece of ancient mythology. In the Greek poet Hesiod’s _Works and Days_ , the woman Pandora opened a jar which contained all of the evils of the world. In doing so, she unleashed burden and sickness and death on humanity, but she closed the jar before the final denizen could escape. Hope was kept inside.

Figuring out why Hope stayed in the jar depends on the reader’s ability to accurately translate ancient Greek as well as decipher the machinations of a bunch of scheming gods as told through the mind of an antiquated bard. So really, there is no correct answer.

Perhaps trapping Hope was an act of kindness. Without it, there can be blissful ignorance. Humankind has the ability to go about their lives as oblivious idiots without the need to know and understand and change. To have the potential for hope is to have the potential for disappointment.

But perhaps Pandora was simply keeping it safe, because she knew it would be needed later. She’d keep Hope in the jar, locked away somewhere buried deep. Who knows how long she’d need to keep it?

She might keep it there for twenty-five years, seven months, two days, twenty hours, and sixteen minutes. And then remember, and set it free.

Standing in front of Mycroft, the truth hanging in the air between them, Sherlock felt like he’d only now just realized that Hope was still residing in the jar.

He should not want to tell the truth now. After years of reminding himself every day why he should not, after years of abiding by the Rules governing his Gift, he should not want to change.

Hope should be something he had deleted a long ago. And yet, here it was.

And maybe it would be all right.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Mycroft, almost annoyed. “I’m not in the mood for antics, I’m really not.”

“I mean it,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft hesitated, for just a second, and then rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Sure. You can reanimate the dead. That explains everything.”

“Except it does,” said Sherlock, trying so hard to be patient.

“Right.” Mycroft scowled. “Is this what we’ve come to now? Could you at least try to act your age? _Try_ to move past the last twenty-something years of pettiness and answer a question honestly?”

“I _am_ being honest!” said Sherlock, angry in spite of himself. He knew it would be a hard thing to process. Mycroft—and Sherlock—operated on logic. This wasn’t logical. It was true, but it wasn’t logical. It would be hard to convince him without proving every other possible solution to be wrong.

“No, you’re doing what you always do, and lie and make up stories and isolate yourself so you can keep your secrets without having to acknowledge there are consequences,” said Mycroft.

“ _You’re_ the one who taught me that the only way to stop people from learning your secrets is to be the only person who ever knows them,” said Sherlock. “ _You’re_ the one who taught me to shut people out.”

Mycroft looked at the ceiling as if he was asking for strength. “The _one_ time you listen to me.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” said Sherlock.

“You do now.” Mycroft leaned forward over the desk. “Now is the perfect opportunity to just _tell the truth_. If you don’t want to shut me out with this—with _him_ —“ Mycroft gestured to John, not looking at him, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock “—then let’s have a discussion like adults.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Then _listen to me_.”

“I _am_ listening,” retorted Mycroft.

“ _Trust_ me, then,” snapped Sherlock. “Maybe that’s more important. I can shout over you if I have to, but I can’t force you to stop assuming everything I say is a ploy. I know that this will be difficult for you to believe. It isn’t logical. It sounds ridiculous, and childish, and possibly insane. I know all of that. It took me a long time to accept that this was real, and this wasn’t just in my head. And it took me even longer to understand it. How I could use it. So for once, just try—just _try_ —to be open-minded.”

“Open-minded,” repeated Mycroft, as if the word was intended as subtext for ‘idiotic’. But his voice had lost just a little bit of its derisive edge. “Aren’t we a little old for magic stories?”

“Probably. But this isn’t a story.”

“It _is_ a story, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “It _has_ to be a story.”

“It’s not,” said Sherlock. “And… I can prove it.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, and then he paused, a deep frown creasing his face. “You can prove it.”

Sherlock stood his ground. His hands, clenched into fists at his side, were actually trembling. “I could argue with you all day and get nowhere, or I could just show you.”

Before he could change his mind, Sherlock crossed to the window, to where Mycroft’s dead flowers were set on the windowsill. He stopped with his hand hovering, outstretched, over the pot of wilting pansies, as if an invisible barrier held him back.

There was no going back.

“Sherlock…” said John, eyes wide, but Sherlock ignored him.

He touched one finger to a dying flower.

There was a flash of golden light, and the plants became green and healthy, leaves unfurling like spring had just arrived all at once, the flowers blooming anew, withered petals turning bright as if in their prime.

Sherlock looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft stared at the flowers, eyes wide, mouth slightly open but absolutely silent. Several long seconds passed before he looked up at Sherlock, not even blinking.

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. “One touch, life,” he said. He had to explain. Rules and regulations could make this better, or at least easier to process. Magic with a list of limitations was easier to swallow than magic running wild. “Second touch…” Sherlock plucked one of the newly bloomed flowers from the plant, and with a shock of darkness, it turned brown and dry in his hand. Beside him, the rest of the plant did the same. He held the shriveled flower up for Mycroft to see. “… Death, again. Permanently.”

Mycroft looked at the plant as though he was waiting for it to move of its own accord and start attacking them. “How,” he said after a long moment, and his voice _cracked_. He tried again. “How did you do that.”

The Detective was finding it unexpectedly hard to breathe. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just know that I can.”

“When,” Mycroft managed after another long moment.

“I found out when I was eight,” said Sherlock. “I saw a bird break its neck hitting my bedroom window. I accidentally brought it back.”

John looked at Sherlock. He hadn’t heard this story.

“I’ve kept it a secret since then,” continued Sherlock. “As carefully as I could. I established a set of rules intended to keep people safe from… me. From what I could do, or what other people might do. But I’ve tried to use my – well, my Gift, in the right way. I catch murderers and solve crimes that no one else can and I use this ability to do it. I can bring people back for a short time to ask them questions. Essentially, I bring the dead back to life so I can catch the people who killed them.”

Sherlock gestured to John. “I brought John back. I know you know how he died, and how important the events surrounding his death may have been. So when I was offered the case, I took it. I brought him back. And he’s staying with me, until I can catch the people who killed him.” He stepped forward, and tapped the photo of John on the desk. “You know John Watson died in Afghanistan. And you’re right. He did. And then I brought him back almost a month ago. He _is_ the man in the photo. And he is dead in the photo. But he isn’t anymore.”

John noticed Mycroft take a careful step back when Sherlock approached, eyes flickering to the photo, and he just hoped that Sherlock didn’t notice too.

Sherlock looked back up at Mycroft. “I thought it was better that you knew nothing. I thought that was better for everyone. But I _want_ you to know.” He smiled anxiously, almost laughing, though largely from nerves. “I wouldn’t mind it if you thought a little better of me than ‘blackmailed drug addict’. And strangely enough, I think this is better. So—this is the truth. And I’m… not ashamed of it.”

The room was silent for a moment.

Sherlock shifted uncertainly when Mycroft didn’t speak. “If you have questions, I’ll answer them. As best I can.”

Mycroft opened his mouth, and then he closed it.

Sherlock’s heartbeat was loud in his ears.

One of the petals from the dead flowers on the windowsill fell to the ground, and even the soft noise of it hitting the floor seemed loud.

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at one another.

John looked between them, afraid to breathe.

Sherlock, for all the world, looked like he felt eight years old again. He looked frightened in that way children are when they hope against hope that everything is going to be all right, that the cynicism and cruelty of the adult world will pass them by for just a little longer.

Mycroft looked as if he’d never seen Sherlock before. Like the secretive eight-year-old boy and the man of thirty-three years who could touch the dead and make them live again were not the same person. Like one was his brother, and one was not.

The moment hung in the air for an impossibly long time, a weight defying all laws of time and gravity, until it couldn’t any longer.

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, and when he did, it was barely audible.

“Get out.”

Sherlock didn’t move, rooted in one place as if frozen there. “… What,” he said, his voice unexpectedly small.

Mycroft looked at him, his expression unreadable. “Get out,” he said again, still quiet. He could have screamed it, and it would have felt just the same.

Maybe this was worse, if that was even possible.

Both brothers looked at one another, eyes searching.

Sherlock took one step back, and then another.

“Come on, John,” he managed finally, giving Mycroft one more hard look before turning and walking from the room.

After a pause, John followed.

Mycroft said nothing as Sherlock and John vanished into the hall, and John shut the door quietly after them.

 

~o~O~o~

 

John and Sherlock didn’t speak on the drive back to Baker Street.

They didn’t need to.

The silence spoke for them.

 

~o~O~o~

 

When they returned to Baker Street, Sherlock got out first, without a word, and went inside. John paid the cabbie before following, and he hurried up the stairs to find that Sherlock had stopped in the middle of the living room, standing there as if he was lost.

John hesitated. “… Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t turn around, and it took him a moment to reply. His voice was shaky, breath catching in his chest. “I… don’t know what I expected.”

“You had no way to know how he’d take it,” said John sympathetically, wishing it wouldn’t be potentially fatal to pat Sherlock on the shoulder or hug him or try to do something reassuring. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Maybe I should have,” said Sherlock. “I know what he’s like.” He finally turned around halfway, looking out the windows of the living room, and John could see how hard Sherlock was struggling to keep his face void of emotion. “He’s never been particularly understanding.”

John bit his lip.

Sherlock looked away again. “It was stupid of me to hope for anything better,” he said, forcefully bitter. “Pathetic.”

“No, no, it’s not…”

But Sherlock shook his head, running one hand absently through his hair. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

John didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t imagine what this was like for Sherlock. Sherlock had spent three-quarters of his life shutting everyone out, telling himself that it was better to be alone. And the one time he chose to let someone in— _chose_ , because he had not been able to choose with Lestrade and John—they turned him away.

Sherlock’s Gift wasn’t an easy thing to comprehend. John knew that—he’d had a hard time adjusting to the idea, and he was quite literally the living proof that it was real.

The truth isn’t like a litter of puppies from which you get to pick the cutest. There is one truth in moments like this, and even if it’s the meanest, ugliest puppy you’ve ever seen, you still have to deal with it.

This truth was the strangest puppy ever to walk the earth, but that didn’t mean it should be cast out.

And John couldn’t shake that it was his fault that Mycroft had found out like this in the first place. He didn’t know what he could have done, or what he could have said, to spare Sherlock this kind of heartbreak. But surely he could have done something. He had to do _something_. But all he could do was stand there feeling as helpless as Sherlock looked.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly.

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s not you.”

“It’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” said Sherlock again. “It was my choice. My secret to tell. And it means a lot to me that you hadn’t told him when I arrived. I’m sure he threatened you.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ve got your back,” John promised. “Through anything.”

Sherlock smiled, but it was void of any real happiness. “I’m glad someone does.”

John raised an arm, and then lowered it again. “What do you need?” he asked finally. “What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m… I’m – not, right now, but I will be.”

John bit his lip again, and then gingerly touched the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat, far from any exposed skin, in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “Do you want some tea? Or do you need time alone?”

Sherlock glanced down at John’s hand on his arm, careful not to move. “Alone, I think,” he said after a pause, with a very small and incredibly sad smile. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Okay,” said John, withdrawing his hand and taking a step back, his heart feeling unbelievably heavy in his chest. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will,” said Sherlock, and turned and quickly disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door with a quiet click.

John sat in the living room, looking out of the window, for most the day, getting up once or twice to make a cup of tea. Every now and then, he would glance at Sherlock’s door, but the flat was silent.

Long after the sun had set, and the flat had grown dark, John quietly climbed the stairs to his own bedroom, leaving a cup of tea outside Sherlock’s door.

Sleep didn’t come.

John lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling, as seconds, and minutes, and hours trickled by. He thought about Mycroft. He thought about Sherlock. But most of all, he thought about his sister, Harry. He thought about where she was, and how she might be doing, and if she was all right. He wondered if she’d ever seen photos like the one he had seen on Mycroft’s desk. If she even knew John had died. If she would want to see him now, if it was possible.

And when his eyes were dry again and the night hours were becoming morning hours, John tried to sleep, and dreamed about roads made from photographs of the dead winding across the dunes of the Khash west of Sangin.

When John went downstairs the next morning, he glanced at Sherlock’s closed door.

The cup was still there, untouched, the tea having long since gone cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello darkness my old friend
> 
> ~
> 
> All aboard the angst train... Mycroft you unbelievable tool  
> Guess it's not all happy this chapter. D: 
> 
> This chapter was actually really hard to write, largely because of Mycroft BEING A JERK and me trying to balance reactions. I'd originally wanted to bring in more of John's thoughts, but it became really jarring switching perspectives all over the place (thank god my beta pointed this out).  
> Ultimately, what's important here is Sherlock, and I hope the focus is properly on him and how much it sucks to try to open up to someone and have it blow up in your face  
> It makes sense to me (in an angsty way) that Mycroft would have a hard time adjusting to this sort of reality. He, like Sherlock, is a very logical guy. This magic thing is not logical. Whether or not he's ever able to get over that remains to be seen. At least John's around for emotional support...?
> 
> I'm doing my best to keep updates on the biweekly schedule for the time being - I have launched into my first PhD project and that's involved a lot of panicking and rapid learning of Fortran, but now that I've gotten going, I'm fairly (?) confident that I can update with a chapter every couple weeks. A nice regular stream of feels...
> 
> Also, random question: are my chapters too long? I think I have a fierce internal debate about chapter length every time I update. I like 'em long, but you guys are the ones who have to suffer if long chapters is a bad thing.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Your kudos, bookmarks, subs, and comments -- as always -- mean a lot to me! I love writing this, and I'm glad so many people seem to be enjoying it too, and I hope it continues to entertain. <3


	24. All That We Have

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A week late because of midterms, but here at last!  
> I'm going to keep to a schedule if it kills me  
> it probably will kill me
> 
> Thanks as ever to my beta Kelly (RoseAngel) for being an incredible person and brilliant beta. ;D <3

It was morning two days after their conversation with Mycroft before Sherlock finally emerged from his room. John’s journal was open on his lap to a blank page (as it had been for an hour) when he heard Sherlock trudge to the bathroom, and a few minutes later he appeared in the kitchen, hair disheveled and dark bags under his eyes. John didn’t think he’d slept much.

“Hey,” he said, setting down his journal. “Want tea?”

“Sure,” said Sherlock without any enthusiasm, and he shuffled into the living room to take a seat in his usual chair.

John made some tea for each of them, and set a few biscuits on a plate to have with it. He brought out Sherlock’s tea and the biscuits, setting them down on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, before returning to the kitchen to get his own tea. Finally he joined Sherlock in the living room. He perched on the arm of his own chair, glancing at Sherlock and trying to assess his condition.

Sherlock, naturally, picked up on this right away. He scowled, leaning forward to pick up his cup of tea, and folded his long legs under himself as he settled back in his chair once more. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re worried I’ll implode.”

“I’m not. I was just worried about you, that’s all.”

“Nothing to worry about,” said Sherlock. When John just looked uncertain, he continued, “I’ll manage. Stop fussing.”

“Okay,” John sighed. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure. He took a sip of tea. “Nothing changes this way. Mycroft knows now, but he won’t be bothering us, and he obviously won’t say anything about it. No one would believe it. So really, nothing’s changed.”

“So we just… go back to focusing on Moriarty,” said John. “Right?”

“Correct,” said Sherlock. “He’s our main problem now. No more distractions, for lack of a better word.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. Sherlock had never felt as distracted as he did right now. It rather felt like a piece of his chest had been removed, and he found its absence incredibly distracting. He didn’t understand it; he just knew that it hurt. But while working should fix it, like it fixed everything else, he just couldn’t bring himself to try when he felt like this.

“How did you know I was with Mycroft, anyway?” asked John, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts.

The Detective shrugged halfheartedly, still curled up in his chair. “It wasn’t hard to deduce. I met Lestrade at Bart’s and he told me Mycroft had asked about you. And then I came back here and you had gone. No sign of a struggle. Fairly easy to figure out where you’d gone. And he’s always at the Diogenes,” said Sherlock. “So. Easy.”

John nodded. “Right. Well… thanks, again.”

“Mm.”

“Is there anything you need?” asked John.

“A different life?” said Sherlock, with a miserable laugh. “One where I’m not a freak in the eyes of just about every living being on the planet. And most the dead ones too, I expect.” Before John could say anything, Sherlock laughed again, rubbing his eyes. “Apologies. Self-pity gets old.”

“I don’t think you’re a freak,” said John. He didn’t know what else to say.

“I know you don’t,” said Sherlock. “I can’t fathom why not, but I know you don’t.”

“Maybe because I know you?” said John.

Sherlock frowned a little into his mug of tea.

John sighed. “It’s going to be okay. That’s… empty and stupid, I know. I wish I could give you an emotional Heimlich so you could cough up that ball of fear and anxiety wedged in your throat, but I can’t. But it _will_ be okay.”

Sherlock laughed a little. “All right, doctor. Well, sooner would be better than later.”

“I get that,” said John, smiling a bit. “So what now? Back to working on Moriarty?”

“I guess,” said Sherlock. “I have to figure out what to do next. I’ve been distracted as of late, and I’m not sure what leads we have now. Your records are sealed, courtesy of MI5. Shan is dead, and her organization is dead or in hiding. The sniper and Moriarty himself are nowhere to be found, and there are no new related cases.”

“Time to start digging again,” suggested John, and Sherlock nodded, though without much in the way of excitement.

Sherlock was still thinking about Mycroft, John knew. Whether Sherlock understood it or not, that was what the real problem was.

They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in thought.

“I’ll reach out to my Homeless, for now,” said Sherlock, picking up his phone, just as John had an idea of his own.

“Sounds like a start,” said John, looking up. He paused, then added, “Do you mind if I step out for a bit?”

“What for?”

John shrugged. “I thought I’d walk to the shops and get us a couple things. I can get some takeaway on the way back. I think we’re working from here today.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment, and then he sighed. “All right. Just be direct. Under an hour, if you can. You’re not supposed to be out where you can be seen, but if we’re going back to the drawing board, then we might both be lying low for a while. So just make it fast. You can use my card.”

“I’ll try to be quick,” said John. He stood and walked to the kitchen table, fishing a credit card out of Sherlock’s wallet. “You’ll be okay? Promise you won’t go charging off?”

“I have no desire to go anywhere or do anything,” said Sherlock. “Moriarty… can wait a day.”

It was this, more than anything, that helped John make up his mind.

He pulled on his coat. “I’ll be back in a bit,” he said, shutting the door as he went. He descended the stairs and walked out onto the street. Within a minute, he made it to the end of the street—which he knew was out of sight of the flat—and looked around before flagging a cab. As soon as one stopped, he climbed in.

“Where to?” asked the cabbie.

John took a deep breath. “The Diogenes.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

The Diogenes looked just as regal as it had the last time John had been there. After John had paid the cab driver, he paused for a moment on the sidewalk, looking up at the building with a distant but persistent trepidation.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

It was almost certainly a bad idea.

He hadn’t planned this at all; the idea had gotten into his head, but now he wasn’t sure what he was hoping to do.

But then, he wasn’t sure it mattered.

The Holmes brothers might deal purely in logic, but John was not like them. To him, sentiment had just as much validity, and right now, this was sentiment. Coming here was pure sentiment.

John walked through the front door of the club. It was totally silent, just as it had been before, none of the men loitering around the foyer saying anything. John glanced around, and then he walked briskly down the hall. He remembered the route easily enough, and he didn’t stop until he reached Mycroft’s office door. He paused, wavering, and then he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, set his expression, and opened the door.

The office had not changed much. The room was as grand and stuffy as it had been last time. The only real difference was that the pot of dead flowers that had been on the windowsill was now gone.

Mycroft sat behind his grand mahogany desk with a small stack of papers and a grim expression on his face. At the sound of the door, he looked up and then, at the sight of John in the doorway, he froze.

“Get out,” said Mycroft sharply.

It was, John thought, quite possibly the worst possible choice of words Mycroft could have made.

“Or what?” he demanded, temper flaring in an instant. Instead of leaving, he closed the door, and stepped forward towards Mycroft.

He hadn’t been sure how he was going to feel or what he was going to want to say when he saw Mycroft, but now all he felt was a bubbling outrage deep in the pit of his stomach.

“Excuse me?” said Mycroft, and John thought he sounded almost unnerved.

“Or what?” said John again. “You’re going to have someone come and drag the angry dead guy out of your office?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” hissed Mycroft.

“Believe me, I’m aware of that,” snapped John, crossing the room until he stood in front of Mycroft’s desk, just where he’d been a few days before. “But since I’m the person who’s spent the last couple days trying to get Sherlock back on his feet after what _you_ said, I don’t give a shit.”

“So what do you want, exactly?” Mycroft said.

“Five minutes of your time,” John retorted.

Mycroft sat back. “Fine. Starting now. And then you can leave.”

John took a deep breath. “The other day, you were overwhelmed. I get that. I was more than a little overwhelmed when Sherlock first explained this all to me—and I was the person he brought back. I understand. But you’ve had time to think about it, and think about what he said. If you have questions, I want to answer them. Then maybe you can quit being a jackass about it.”

“It wasn’t real,” said Mycroft flatly.

John blinked, confused. “… What?”

“It wasn’t real,” said Mycroft again. “That. All of that from the other day.”

“You must be joking.” John stared at him. “Of course it was real.”

“That’s impossible,” said Mycroft.

“Not impossible. And when you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true,” said John. He could hear Sherlock saying the words in his head. “I’m who you think I am. I was definitely killed in Afghanistan. I’m not dead now. Sherlock’s responsible for that. You saw him bring that plant back. You _saw_. It seems… real bloody improbable, granted, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t the truth.”

“It wasn’t _real_ ,” snapped Mycroft. “I don’t know what it was, but—“ He shut his eyes, turning his face up to the ceiling. “My mental health is impeccable. So.”

“For fucks sake,” said John, rolling his eyes, and this earned him a glaring look from Mycroft. “You’re not _crazy_. Neither is Sherlock. Neither am I. This is _real_.”

“No,” said Mycroft, with a refusal in his voice that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

John thought he could see now why Sherlock had shown Mycroft how his Gift worked in the way that he had. Mycroft could find a way to tear down any argument that wasn’t made of concrete—or, thought John, made of something living that could argue for itself. Maybe seeing it had frightened Mycroft, but he would never have believed Sherlock without the proof. Mycroft _needed_ evidence.

John craned his neck to the side, and tugged at his shirt collar until the scar over his heart was just visible.

“Ta da,” he said awkwardly.

A month ago, it had been an open wound; now, it looked just like a scar should. To anyone else, it wouldn’t mean anything. But John knew Mycroft would understand the implications.

“… It’s healed,” said Mycroft, after a long pause.

“I stitched it up.” John straightened, fixing his shirt and jacket. “I didn’t really like having a hole in my shoulder.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“So… ” said Mycroft slowly, as if it hurt to acknowledge that John was telling the truth. “You _are_ dead.”

“I _was_ dead,” corrected John. “I’m not anymore.”

“I don’t understand how that’s possible.”

John shrugged. “I don’t either. But I’m very much alive. I have a pulse, I need to eat, I need to sleep, I breathe. I’m alive. Again.”

“Because of Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

“Because of Sherlock.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. “Are there other… people like you?”

“No,” said John. “I’m the only one.”

“Why you?”

John almost laughed. “You have no idea how much I wish I knew the answer to that question. But it’s just me. It gets… complicated, for the people Sherlock brings back to stay alive for long. Really complicated.”

Mycroft pondered this for a moment. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Good.”

After a moment, Mycroft continued, “Is that all you came here to say? To force me to accept that this is all real?”

“I—“ John frowned a little, but went on, “I suppose so. I was hoping you’d think differently, and treat Sherlock differently, if you were sure.”

“Right,” said Mycroft slowly, and he looked back down at the stack of paperwork lying on the desk. “The effort is appreciated.”

It was a dismissal, and John knew it.

He stood his ground. “You should talk to him. To Sherlock. Now. Before—“

Mycroft looked up sharply. “Before what?” he said.

“Before he doesn’t want you to.”

Mycroft’s jaw shifted, and it looked like working out his choice of words involved ungluing his teeth. “With all due respect, you have no idea what this is like,” he said, with just a little bit of the condescension he’d had a few days ago. “How difficult this is to process. It is impossible to rationalize. There is no way of explaining it. There’s no precedent for dealing with something like this.”

“I know that,” said John. “And—“

“And regardless, my opinion doesn’t matter. Sherlock might have told me—for your benefit, mind you—but he clearly does not need anything from me. What I think about it doesn’t change what he’s capable of. Personal feelings aside—“

“You can’t put personal feelings aside here,” interrupted John. “Personal feelings are the _point_.”

“Personal feelings complicate things.”

“Yeah, they do. And it’s also what matters,” said John sharply. “It’s why Sherlock’s spent the last two days trying to come to terms with the fact that you hate him for being honest with you for the first time in years.”

Mycroft swallowed, and said nothing.

“If you lose your brother because of this, because you’re _afraid_ of what _he’s_ had to live with, then it’s your own fault,” John went on. “He can’t help being like this. It’s not his fault he has this – Gift, or whatever.“

“I understand perfectly well that this… ability is beyond his control,” said Mycroft.

“Then how can you punish him for it?!” demanded John.

Mycroft looked at him.

John gestured hopelessly. “He said it himself. He doesn’t know how he can do it, but he’s spent _decades_ trying to find ways to use his Gift to do good things. He’s made a life in spite of it. With it. He does _good_ work. He’s probably saved a lot of lives, too. He’s managed to take something that could have ruined his life and make it into something amazing. He’s done a lot of good, and at great personal risk, too.”

“He’s done an… admirable job managing independently, all things considered,” said Mycroft. “He’s fortunate no one has stumbled across something like this before. Though I suppose the lack of people… lingering as long as you have would cover things up.”

“Until now, yeah, that’s been the case,” said John. “But this time it’s different. I don’t know how much you know about—“

“I know enough to get on with,” interrupted Mycroft. “More than you think I do. It is my job to know.”

John simply nodded. “Then whatever you know about Moriarty—if you _do_ know—should be enough to tell you that things are different with this case. For Sherlock. And I think he needs you now. More than he’s ever needed you.”

Mycroft’s face was blank. “He’s made it twenty-five years without me. He’s never wanted my help, in anything.”

“I don’t think that’s true. In fact, I think it might be the opposite. He just didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know if he could, or should.”

Mycroft looked down, and shook his head slightly.

A silence stretched between them, and the longer it went on, the more John realized he had no words with which to fill it. He’d said everything he could. Everything that mattered. It was on Mycroft to take anything from it.

John looked at Mycroft, and finally he put his hands in his pockets. “I should go,” he said. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything.

John hesitated. “He’s all that you have,” he said quietly. “And you’re all he has. He’s cut everyone off, but he’s asking now for your help. For once in his life, he is asking you for help. And I know this must be difficult, but if you can’t give him that support now, I don’t know that you’ll get another chance.”

“I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to speak with me,” said Mycroft, in his best business tone. There wasn’t a drop of noticeable emotion in his voice or in his face.

John paused, and then he nodded numbly, making to leave.

“… I think I wish you _were_ blackmailing him,” came Mycroft’s voice, just as John was reaching the door. “Just some worthless nobody I could get rid of without a second thought. I wish that was all you were.”

John paused, and looked at him.

The older Holmes brother looked small behind his desk. “I would know how to protect him if you were.”

John smiled thinly, and when Mycroft fell silent, John turned his back on him, and slipped out into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sadly for you, Mycroft, i am your worst nightmare
> 
> ~
> 
> Drama! Someone had to tell Mycroft he was being an idiot.  
> It seems logical to me that Mycroft would have a hard time accepting everything Sherlock said, even with the proof - and then it would be to John to make absolutely sure that Mycroft wrapped his head around it all. John stayed silent before when Sherlock first told, because it was Sherlock's secret to tell. But now it seemed time for him to say something too.  
> Now it's on Mycroft to do anything about the situation... We shall see. 
> 
> what we really need is Mrs Hudson to whack everyone upside the head and tell them how silly they're all being  
> (her line in Scandal about family being all we have in the end was haunting me all through writing this and so obviously it's vaguely floating around the chapter title)
> 
> Doing my best to keep to a biweekly update schedule! There might be a one week delay with the next chapter depending on some travel, but we'll see. If there is, it'll be a long chapter to make up for it. Regardless, I've been doing a lot of planning with the long-term plot as well, so I've got a pretty good idea of the evil to come  
> i mean what  
> did i say evil  
> i meant fun  
> the fun to come  
> yes  
> fun  
> yes
> 
> Thank you all so much for your kudos, subs, and comments most of all! You're the best readers a pen-wielding llama could ask for. ;D <3


	25. An Advantage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST, I RETURN
> 
> A huge thank you to my beta, RoseAngel!
> 
> AND NOW  
> BACK TO THE ACTION  
> with possibly the longest chapter to date as my way of apologizing for the delay >_>;

Somehow, in all those television shows about law enforcement, the part of the case where the investigation stalled still managed to be interesting. It provided time for those key minutes of character development before someone came running in with a photo or a stack of incriminating documents or a bit of poignant footage from a security tape. Then everything would take off again at full speed.

Real investigations, John knew, were not like that. After a whirlwind of drama, with Sherlock being abducted, then rescued, followed by Shan’s death, Shan’s second death, and Mycroft’s interference, there was bound to be a period of quiet. Particularly now that the trail leading to Moriarty had, for the moment, gone cold.

But _Christ_ was it slow.

A few days after John’s visit to Mycroft (which, thankfully, Sherlock had not noticed), Sherlock began once more reviewing the information they had. A week after John’s visit to Mycroft, it became clear that they were getting nowhere.

“The bottom line is, we’re waiting for Moriarty to make a move,” said Sherlock for the tenth time that day, grimacing at the skull on the mantel as if it was the thing holding back their next lead.

John joined Sherlock in the living room, setting down a mug of tea on the coffee table for him. Sherlock picked it up without complaint, eyes still fixed on the skull, and John sighed inwardly in relief. Sherlock was eating and drinking whenever John offered him something, which John hoped meant that Sherlock was getting ready to mobilize again. Or that he was starting to get back on his feet emotionally, though John knew better than to say that aloud.

“What kind of move?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “Good question. I wish I knew the answer. Since we don’t have one, all we can do is be alert and cautious. There’s a reason you’re staying cooped up in here for the time being.”

John nodded reluctantly. “So if Moriarty _is_ concerned about you poking around, then he’ll get in contact or send someone after you again, in which case it’s just a matter of being ready for whatever happens.”

“Precisely.”

“But what if he isn’t concerned?”

“Then…” Sherlock said thoughtfully, taking a sip of tea. He sighed. “Then I’m not sure. Right now, he knows how to get in touch with me. How to find me too, I suspect. But I can’t return the favour.” He took a couple steps back from the mantelpiece, eyed the skull for a moment longer, and finally retreated to sit in his chair. “My Network doesn’t have anything to report. As far as I can tell, the Black Lotus have gone to ground. Maybe with better resources, I could find them again, but…” He trailed off, thinking. After a pause, he went on, “There’s little chance of finding them anytime soon. It’s even less likely that we could find the sniper. And we don’t know any of Moriarty’s other contacts or accomplices. His empire is massive, sure, but the reason it’s been able to get that big is because he’s an expert at hiding his involvement.”

“And we don’t have anything from Lestrade either,” added John.

Sherlock shook his head. John had texted Lestrade on Sherlock’s behalf, with Sherlock’s phone, a few days before to tell him that the situation with Mycroft had been resolved and it was safe to talk again. And while it was nice to have some form of official support on their side, Lestrade was just as much in the dark as they were.

Sherlock sighed frustratedly, taking another sip of tea. “Two weeks of nothing is starting to wear on my nerves.”

“Mm.” John sat in the opposite chair, looking over at Sherlock. “Considering until a couple weeks ago, every spare minute since I’ve been alive again was filled with something dramatic, it feels… weird. After being brought back, and adjusting, and Jeff Hope, then the Black Lotus fiasco, and Shan…”

“Right,” said Sherlock. He rubbed his forehead. “Hard to believe Shan died two weeks ago and there’s been no detectable fallout.”

“I know,” said John. He hesitated, and then said, voicing something that had been on his mind for a while, “To be honest, I’m sort of shocked that Moriarty didn’t hide or destroy her body before the police got there. Or steal it, like he tried to do with mine.”

Sherlock settled back in his chair. “I’m not so surprised.” When John looked confused, Sherlock went on, “Killing you wasn’t part of the plan. Your death—your body—was just collateral. But potentially revealing collateral. I suspect he wanted to get rid of your body both to help shield his sniper and to send a message. Teasing the police, you could say. He’s the mastermind of a criminal empire that sometimes engages in terroristic activity, and stealing the bodies of slain veterans associated with a large-scale security investigation is a good way to spit in the face of the people hunting him. I think your body not being there when he went after it was a shock for him. He may be thinking that his movements are being followed, or that someone close to him blabbed, and so he’ll be even more cautious than he was before your death.”

John nodded, and Sherlock continued, “But he had Shan killed _intentionally_. Letting the police find her body after a raid against her people is a message, I’m sure of it.”

“What’s the message?”

Sherlock shifted. “He doesn’t have any use for failures,” he said grimly.

John shuddered almost in spite of himself.

“She made a mistake. She was the leader of the Black Lotus; she made a call, and it resulted in the police tracking the Tong down and nearly capturing all of them. And her decision to kidnap me alerted us to Moriarty’s personal interest in me. Having Shan assassinated tells us that Moriarty doesn’t let the people close to him make mistakes that could put him at risk. He doesn’t believe in second chances.”

“So the ruler of a criminal empire _and_ a horrible boss,” said John, which got a small laugh out of Sherlock.

“A truly terrible boss,” he confirmed.

“If all that is true,” said John, “then at least we know one good thing. Moriarty didn’t think Shan’s body would give you anything useful with which to find him. So clearly he doesn’t know all of your tricks.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. That could be true. It didn’t mean it was safe to throw caution to the winds, but it was possibly something worth a little reassurance. He could remember Shan’s warning: _He informed us that you are dangerous. He knows what you are capable of._ All _that you are capable of._ Sherlock would be lying if he said it hadn’t bothered him. Significantly. But his secret was safe—he was sure of it.

“Maybe,” he said finally. “At any rate, all we learned from her was that Moriarty’s sniper killed her, expertly, with the same gun he used to kill you, which says something about his mobility and influence. And we know how scared she was of Moriarty. She was a formidable woman herself, so that’s saying something about what kind of person Moriarty is. Though I suppose I might be scared of my employer too if I knew that a single mistake was enough to get me shot in the head by their pet sniper…”

“Horrible boss, like I said,” said John, grimacing.

“And very elusive.”

“I know,” said John with a sigh. “So what are we…?”

Just then, there was a quiet knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson stuck her head in. “You’ve got company,” she said.

She was _frowning_.

“If it’s a client, Mrs. Hudson, I’m not currently taking…” started Sherlock, and then he stopped.

John looked about, and he saw why.

Mrs. Hudson had already stepped back, and Mycroft had come forward to stand in the threshold.

For a long, tense minute, no one moved, and no one spoke.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence, his voice sharp and clipped. “I don’t want you here. Leave.”

John swallowed, afraid to say anything, and behind Mycroft he could see Mrs. Hudson scurrying back down the stairs with an air of someone running for shelter. If John could have vanished up the stairs to his room without being noticed, he probably would have.

“I won’t stay long,” said Mycroft, unperturbed. “This will only take a moment.”

“ _I don’t care_ ,” hissed Sherlock furiously, face even paler than usual. “I don’t care how brief this little visit is meant to be—you’re not welcome, so, in your words, _get out_.”

Mycroft didn’t get out. “I only came to drop something off,” he said simply. “Then I’ll go.”

Sherlock crossed his arms across his chest defensively. “Fine. Clearly it doesn’t matter if I want it or not.”

Mycroft reached into his bag and pulled out a manila folder. He looked at it, and paused for a moment. “I behaved… poorly, when we last spoke.”

Sherlock snorted derisively.

“I don’t have an excuse,” continued Mycroft. “I had all sorts of suspicions—reasonable, _normal_ suspicions—and instead…” He seemed to struggle for the right words. “I wasn’t prepared, for any of what you told me. I don’t know how I could have been prepared. Not that that justifies my reaction. Even I know it was unfair, and unkind.”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I know perfectly well that there’s nothing I can do to make up for what I said before, or what I didn’t say,” said Mycroft, straightening and looking up at Sherlock. “So I simply hope that this will help repair some of the damage I’ve done.” He held the folder out to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at the folder warily, but reluctantly uncrossed his arms so that he could take it. He flipped it open. He turned the first page, and then the next, and the next, and the next. He closed the folder, and held it out to John, looking at Mycroft with an indecipherable look on his face.

John frowned, and carefully took the folder from Sherlock, careful to touch only the end far from Sherlock’s hand. He opened it.

It was a birth certificate.

With his name.

John looked at it, and then flipped through every paper in the folder hurriedly. Under the birth certificate was a copy of his enlistment registration paperwork for the army. Then an NHS card and medical records. And then beneath that, there was a firearms certificate. And then a driver’s license. Then a passport. There were even a few years of tax forms and travel records and university bills and a copy of his degree and his medical license.

John looked at Mycroft, absolutely speechless.

“So you don’t have to deal with someone prying into your business again,” said Mycroft. “It isn’t airtight, of course, but it’s better than nothing. On the record, there is still a John Watson who died in active service in Afghanistan. But according to all of this, you’re also a John Watson who served in Afghanistan. Except you were honorably discharged. Not killed.”

Mycroft turned back to Sherlock. “I thought it might help.”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Better late than never,” he said finally.

Mycroft let out a slow sigh. “That was my hope.”

“Of course, I could have figured out how to get all of those things myself.”

Mycroft nodded sagely. “Just saving you the trouble, which can serve as my apology.”

“I’ll consider it,” said Sherlock, very seriously. “It’s missing an actual apology, but the substance isn’t entirely without merit. I’m willing to put you on probation, and so long as you aren’t such a berk in the future, it might be sufficient.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Mycroft, and there was the faintest hint of real sincerity in his voice.

Sherlock nodded stiffly, still watching Mycroft apprehensively. “Are you sure about this?” he asked after a moment.

Mycroft’s brows furrowed slightly. “Sure about what, exactly?”

“About all of this,” said Sherlock. “About the documents for John. About being involved. About… helping. It’s not as if it doesn’t have risks. And you’re the one who always said caring isn’t an advantage.”

“I’ve done a complete cost-benefit analysis,” said Mycroft (which made John roll his eyes, but didn’t seem to surprise Sherlock). “And no matter how I look at it, this _is_ the most advantageous course of action. We may not see eye to eye, on anything, but that doesn’t mean I want you out of my life. Which is something I understand now, even if it did take me a moment to work that out.” He shifted his feet and coughed lightly, looking awkward. But he did crack the smallest of smiles. “We do occasionally make a rather formidable team, and I’d hate to lose that because of my closed-mindedness.”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock smiled a bit too. “Would be a bit of a shame, I’ll admit.”

“All I can say in my defense is that it was all a bit… let’s just say it was a bit of a surprise,” said Mycroft. “Though it explains quite a lot, in hindsight. Redbeard, for one. You shutting us all out. Your choice of career.”

John raised an eyebrow at ‘Redbeard’, looking at Sherlock, but Sherlock simply shook his head. A story for another time, perhaps. If ever.

“You seem to have recovered from the shock, for what it’s worth,” Sherlock said to Mycroft.

“Yes, well…” Mycroft shrugged, giving John an appraising look that John actively avoided returning. “I won’t pretend I understand it, but I would be stupid to ignore it, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t think it was fascinating.”

“It is, a bit,” admitted Sherlock. “We can talk about the specifics of my ‘Gift’ sometime, when I don’t think you’d faint away with the shock. Or be a dick about it.”

“I can assure you that I’ll do neither,” said Mycroft, rolling his eyes ever so slightly. “We’re… in this together now. You may rely on it. On me.”

The two Holmes brothers looked at each other for a moment, expressions unreadable to an outsider. But to John, he thought it looked like they were reading each other in great detail, searching for a lie, and ultimately finding none.

“You had better not be expecting a hug,” said Sherlock after a moment.

“Why would I be expecting a hug?”

“I’m just making sure.”

“What a ridiculous thought.”

They both started smiling.

“There’s only one problem,” said John, speaking at last.

Both Mycroft and Sherlock looked at him abruptly, and it was almost comical how much they looked alike when they were both wearing matching scowls.

“I can’t drive,” said John, holding up the new drivers license.

Sherlock burst out laughing.

John giggled as well, and when he shot a glance at Mycroft, he saw the older Holmes gazing at Sherlock in surprise, as though he’d forgotten what his brother laughing actually sounded like.

Maybe he had.

“There’s more we should talk about,” said Mycroft a moment later. “Regarding Moriarty. If you’d like to discuss it.”

Sherlock frowned a little, but it didn’t totally mask the flicker of excitement in his eyes. “Your timing is appalling. But obviously I want to discuss it.” He glanced at John, and John nodded quickly as well.

“You might be able to fill in some of the gaps in my information,” Mycroft said. “But I might also be able to fill in some of yours. For one…” He paused as he reached into his briefcase, pulling out a print of a photograph. “… we may have a picture of Moriarty’s sniper.”

John’s heart skipped a beat.

Sherlock blinked, and then he snatched the photo out of Mycroft’s hand, angling it so that John could look without getting too close.

The photograph was of mediocre quality. It looked like a screenshot from standard surveillance footage, just a CCTV still, and so it didn’t offer much in the way of detail. But in the lower right-hand corner of the image was a man mid-stride, looking over his shoulder so that his face was hidden. The only discernible features were his military clothing and his short hair, just a few shades darker than John’s sandy blonde.

“This was taken two days before our informant was killed,” said Mycroft, and then he amended, with a gesture to John, “Two days before you were killed. They were flying out with a number of other soldiers.”

“Not exactly a damning picture,” said John. It still made his jaw clench.

“How did you determine that _this_ is the sniper?” asked Sherlock, trying to take in every pixelated detail.

“We found that one of the names on this flight did, in fact, belong to a dead soldier,” said Mycroft. “This is the only photograph of any soldier on that flight whose status can’t now be verified, so it must be him. Not even military security is perfect. It’s easier to get past military checkpoints if you’re using what used to be a legitimate identity. You should know, little brother, that making up entirely false personas never yields good results—it’s too easy to lose track of the details. Modifying a dead man’s records so that they look alive is less challenging, and less risky. It’s a similar thought process to the one I used in creating John’s new papers. And in addition, I imagine people are less suspicious about those people flying _into_ active warzones, as opposed to out of them.”

“So the timeline could work, certainly,” said Sherlock, nodding thoughtfully. “So do we know what happened after this photo was taken?”

Mycroft shook his head with a grudging pout on his face. “We lost him on the ground. His movements once he arrived in Afghanistan are something of a mystery.”

“Well, if he started in Lashkar Gah, he probably headed south to Sangin with a supply convoy,” said John unexpectedly. He looked at Mycroft, who blinked. “Was he impersonating someone with clearance? I mean, he’s a sniper, and Sherlock’s suspected he had military training himself, so if he could pass for some sort of specialized ops personnel, they’d have him in Sangin. That’s where most of the fighting is, and where most of us are stationed. That’s where your informant was, so that’d suit the sniper just fine. He could be there in a few days, and drop off the grid once he’d done his job. And we know he was back here at least two weeks ago when the leader of the Black Lotus was assassinated, since the bullet from her matches the bullet from me. So he probably got into the base, identified the departure that was the one most likely getting the informant from Sangin to Lashkar Gah to fly to London, and sabotaged it. That done, he could find another way out of the country, without having to rush.”

Sherlock permitted himself a rather self-satisfied smirk. “And this is why I keep you around, John.”

“Fuck off,” said John, ducking his head to hide a smile.

Mycroft sighed. “Makes sense. Not that it gives us much besides the beginnings of a profile. But I still thought it might be of interest.”

“It is,” agreed Sherlock, looking at John out of the corner of his eye before passing the photograph back to Mycroft. “It isn’t much, but it’s not nothing either.”

“Certainly not nothing. The smallest details have a weight when it comes to Moriarty.” Mycroft returned the photograph to his briefcase. “I have the feeling that you and I have been chasing Moriarty for about the same time. MI5 lost the informant that John met mere hours before we were anticipating getting his information on a criminal scandal that would defy any expectation. We weren’t given specifics, but the names given as proof-of-legitimacy were related to highly sensitive information. The intel was almost definitely genuine. Which made the loss of the informant especially troubling. And it wasn’t the first time something of this nature had happened, either, so we were even more suspicious.” He paused, looking at Sherlock uneasily. “Could…” He cleared his throat. “Could _you_ have – communicated with…?”

Sherlock anticipated the question, and shook his head. “I need a body. I’m told there wasn’t much of one left, and certainly not enough for a conversation. I have my limits.”

Mycroft nodded quickly.

“That’s why I brought John back in the first place,” Sherlock went on. “Since he died tending to the informant, and his body escaped similar massive posthumous damage, I thought he might have heard or seen something.”

“And…?”

Sherlock gestured for John to answer.

“He said, ‘Tell them it was M—‘, and then I died,” said John with a shrug. “And we assume the ‘M’ was going to be—“

“Moriarty,” he and Sherlock finished in unison.

“So really, we’ve just confirmed what we already suspected,” concluded Sherlock. “It seems to me that you just have more suspicions to add to our own.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything, but Sherlock could see a contradiction in his expression.

His brain seized on it.

“Unless…” said Sherlock.

Mycroft took a breath. “Our thought was that the sniper would be the most direct and most accessible route to Moriarty. A weak link. Crime, even on a massive scale, is one thing—but eliminating informants deeply tied to international espionage is another. It _demands_ attention. But when we followed up on the few leads we had, even the sniper’s trail, we found the name ‘Moriarty’ and nothing else. Any efforts to follow scant leads ended up in getting there a few minutes too late, when the evidence was gone or the agent delivering news was dead. We heard nothing—until we did.”

Sherlock waited, stunned. “… He contacted MI5, didn’t he.”

John gaped.

Mycroft nodded.

“Well?” prompted Sherlock impatiently.

“Without explicitly telling you government secrets, let’s just say he left us an invitation, which translated as a warning,” said Mycroft. “A riddle, to which the answer was a kind of congratulations and a threat if we did not back off.”

John glanced sideways and was immediately unsettled by the grim smile on Sherlock’s face.

“So he tested MI5 just to see if you lot were worth threatening at all,” said Sherlock. “ _Fantastic._ ”

“Not the word I’d have used,” mumbled John under his breath.

“You and I were bound to cross paths on this case, Sherlock, even if everything with John hadn’t happened,” said Mycroft. “I think we can be sure, from the moment you were abducted by the Black Lotus, you’d gotten yourself noticed. And I think Moriarty is going to test you next.”

“Good,” said Sherlock flatly.

But Mycroft shook his head. “No. Because if he does engage you, and you present even the smallest of challenges, Moriarty will warn you to back down, or he’ll kill you.”

John exhaled shakily, rubbing his eyes. _Brilliant_.

But Sherlock didn’t so much as blink. “That would be remarkably ambitious of him.”

“He already almost succeeded,” Mycroft reminded him bluntly.

Sherlock waved this away. “The Lucky Cat incident was different. I’m aware, now. And more cautious. And, I’ll add, not dead, thanks to John and Lestrade.”

“But the Black Lotus’ resources and influence are nothing compared to Moriarty’s,” said Mycroft. “You caused enough of a scene to get everyone’s attention, from the Black Lotus all the way up to the top. If you keep following this case, it’s only a matter of time before you’re a problem. If he hasn’t done so already, Moriarty will contact you. A puzzle, or a challenge—some kind of invitation to engage. To those of us hunting him, it looks like a lead to get closer to him. But to Moriarty, it’s an easy way to figure out how soon he needs you dead. The safest thing to do would be to back down now.”

“Not a chance,” said Sherlock automatically.  

“Somehow, I knew you’d say that. So just… be on your guard. We’ve lost eleven agents to him already, and those are just the ones we know about,” said Mycroft. “I’d rather that didn’t happen to you.”

“Yesterday I was confident you were hated me, and now you’re in my living room professing you’d rather I didn’t die?” said Sherlock, making a face. “Such mixed signals, brother dear.”

“Is it actually impossible for you to take anything seriously?” replied Mycroft wearily.

“Look.” Sherlock leaned forward slightly. “If Moriarty has sent me an invitation to chat, I’m going to accept it. I want answers. I _need_ answers. And so does John, and I’m willing to bet you do as well. If there was ever an opponent worth engaging, it’s this one. A criminal empire of this scale can’t be ignored. It shouldn’t be ignored. The entirety of my being revolves around this case. I’ve invested too much to turn back now. So just tell me what to expect.”

Mycroft hesitated, and then he sighed. “You’ll know it when you see it. If your invitation is anything like the one MI5 received, it should be personalized.”

Sherlock nodded. “So I don’t need to look for Moriarty. I just need to look for…”

“Something out of place,” finished Mycroft.

John frowned. “You’re joking. That could be anything.”

Both Sherlock and Mycroft shook their heads. “Something thoughtlessly deposited or abandoned or moved is innocuous,” said Sherlock. “But something specific _deliberately_ left out of place _screams_ for the mind to see it. When you’re looking for something out of the ordinary, subtle disturbances make all the difference. Too much, and it wouldn’t be personal. If Moriarty wants to get in touch, he’ll do so in a way that says his message is for me, and me alone.”

John continued to frown, but eventually, he nodded.

Mycroft straightened. “If Moriarty _does_ get in touch, do let me know. I may be able to be of assistance, considering the resources I have access to and the interest the government has in bringing Moriarty down.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Sherlock. “Though you know I don’t collaborate well.”

“I think you’re improving,” said Mycroft, gaze flickering briefly to John. “But regardless, do try to be careful.”

“You too, I suppose,” said Sherlock, with a grudging smile. “Now stop sounding all considerate, it’s making me nauseous.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I think I’ll go for now. But I’ll be in touch, if you have no objections.”

“I don’t,” replied Sherlock. “For once, I don’t.”

Mycroft nodded, first to Sherlock and then a little stiffly to John, and then he turned and stepped briskly through the door and down the stairs.

Sherlock watched him go, and was still watching the door even after Mycroft had descended the stairs and the sound of the front door closing had died away. He had a slightly dazed expression on his face, as if he was still processing that Mycroft had walked through the door at all.

“… You good?” said John tentatively after a few minutes.

Sherlock nodded slowly. “Surprisingly so.”

John smiled. “Good. I’m glad.”

“I’m a bit shocked that he – you know, that he came around to the whole thing. To me.”

“He’s your brother,” said John vaguely. He had no intention of ever mentioning his private conversation with Mycroft. “He’s had a lot to think about. And I imagine he feels like he has some catching up to do.”

Sherlock ruffled his hair with one hand. “Life has been very different since I met you, John.”

John laughed. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“It is a compliment.” After a moment, Sherlock continued, “And as if my brother’s change of heart wasn’t enough, we have even more to consider.”

“You mean Moriarty’s impending invitation.”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s like Mycroft said. It’s only a matter of time before Moriarty and I engage. I’m not letting him ignore me. We just have to figure out how he’s going to send his message, and when. Decoding whatever it is he sends when we find it will be another challenge entirely. But it means this case, contrary to what we believed just this morning, is far from at a standstill.”

“That just sounds like a lot of ominous open-ended questions to me,” said John.

“To be honest, for now there’s just one question that’s foremost in my mind,” said Sherlock, finally turning his gaze away from the door to look at John.

John raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Sherlock’s face was doggedly stern, but he thought he might burst at the seams from holding back a laugh. “Can you _really_ not drive?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you seriously sassing me right now, Sherlock Holmes  
> i've been taking care of your miserable self for days, do not test me
> 
> ~
> 
> I couldn't let Mycroft be a horrible jerk forever, guys, I just couldn't
> 
> ~
> 
> I LIIIIIIVE
> 
> A thousand apologies for the unexpected mini-hiatus, everyone. I have no excuses other than life just got in the way, as it tends to do.  
> BUT, the semester is nearly done, and I'm hoping summertime will be a lot more productive. Things tend to be a little frantic with classes, especially when it's term-paper and final-exam season, as I'm sure a lot of you know.
> 
> Now, one thing that worked out all right with the break is that this chapter marks the transition into the next "arc" of the story. We have at last resolved the Mycroft ProblemTM, which means Moriarty has once again taken his rightful place as the diabolical center of attention.  
> And, this mini-break has given me a lot of time to strategize going forward.  
> Looking for silver linings here. ;D
> 
> Anyway!  
> At least Mycroft's stopped being such a moron.  
> I mean, we all knew he'd come around, right? Right? With a little motivation from John and a few days of brotherly guilt.  
> And now we shift back to Moriarty, who (I'm willing to bet) isn't going to wait too terribly long before getting in touch with Sherlock... But we'll see~
> 
> I hope the long chapter helps make up for the delay, and with any luck it'll all be much more to-schedule for the foreseeable future! I should be back to regular updates once I'm done with classes and my summer work is up and running. By the end of May, for sure.  
> Edit: also, this chapter brings it over the 100K word mark? Good lord I talk a lot :U
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! Your feedback means a lot - I love writing this, so I'm glad so many people seem to still be enjoying it as well. :D <3


	26. Testing the Waters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back!  
> Thanks to my amazing beta RoseAngel, as always <3

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?”

Sherlock glanced sideways at Lestrade out of the corner of his eye, as Lestrade gestured with a half-eaten donut in one hand, the other hand on the steering wheel of his car. “Very sure. You know I don’t eat when I’m working.”

“Suit yourself…” said Lestrade, taking a bite of his donut. He and Sherlock were spending the morning driving to a handful of predetermined locations around London, which they’d been doing every morning for the better part of a week.

Since Mycroft’s visit, Sherlock had leapt back to work, absorbed in the thrill of the chase almost immediately. It was like the sullen days sitting around the house had never happened—or, more accurately, it was like he was hell-bent on making up for the lost time. 

Sherlock’s rekindled desire to go rushing off in search of new leads had only been hindered (somewhat) by John, who was quite obviously a lot more concerned about the fact that Moriarty was dangerous than Sherlock was. When Sherlock made it plain that it wasn’t wise for John to venture out if Moriarty was still looking for him (never mind his new collection of IDs stashed carefully in the drawer of John’s bedside table), John had grudgingly agreed that going with the police during the Lucky Cat raid and going with Sherlock on casework had been risky. But that didn’t mean John was willing to let Sherlock go off alone now, which was how the Detective had found himself spending an unreasonable amount of time with DI Lestrade, at John’s insistence.

(The conversation had consisted largely of Sherlock objecting loudly every time John demanded that Sherlock have some kind of backup, and it had ended when Lestrade arrived at the flat bright and early the day after Mycroft’s visit and John admitted that he’d called the policeman to keep an eye on Sherlock long before the debate had even begun.)

Now, Sherlock and Lestrade were visiting every place Sherlock could think of that connected him and Moriarty, hoping that some kind of message would appear at one of these locations. The emotional distraction that was Mycroft was resolved (enough) and John’s identity wasn’t an imminent liability, if he hid for now. There were no more disruptions to keep Sherlock’s mind off Moriarty and his web.  All he wanted was the invitation to engage that he knew had to be coming. It was all he could think about. His typically multi-function mind had rapidly narrowed down to one track, and his train of thought was now permanently speeding down that track in the direction of finding Moriarty.

“Do you know what we’re supposed to be looking for, by any chance?” asked Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was not the first time that week that the policeman had asked that question. “I’ve told you about a hundred times. A missive from Moriarty.”

“Right, but what does that look like, exactly?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Sherlock in exasperation. “Why? Problem?”

“I’m just wondering. Since I don’t know what to look for or even how long you’re planning on checking all of these places for some sign of Moriarty,” said Lestrade wearily.

“For however long I have to,” said Sherlock. “Days, weeks, whatever.”

Lestrade finished the last of his donut in one bite. “D’oofink ‘at airs a chintz—“

“For the love of God, Lestrade, even _I_ can’t figure out what you’re saying.“

Lestrade swallowed his mouthful and tried again. “Do you think that there’s a chance Mycroft was wrong? That Moriarty isn’t going to get in contact?”

“Not particularly,” said Sherlock.

“Why?”

“Because if Moriarty is as smart as I think he is, he’ll know by now that I’m not going to let this go. If I have to raise hell, I will.”

“Please don’t,” grumbled Lestrade. “You’re already raising the dead.”

Sherlock groaned. “That was quite possibly _the worst_ attempt at a joke—“

“And if Moriarty is as dangerous as we all think he is, I don’t want you in over your head,” Lestrade went on, his fingers drumming nervously on the steering wheel.

“How often am I in over my head?” said Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

“Not often,” sighed Lestrade. “Which is why the prospect is so unnerving.”

“Look, this _has_ to be done,” said Sherlock. “When you first approached me to look at John’s body, we didn’t have any information and the suspicion was terrorism. Now we know who had John killed, and we also know he’s been involved with at least half a dozen other murders and who knows how many major crimes, he has incredible reach and influence, he has access to impressive funds for his criminal ventures, he’s capable of intimidating even the Secret Service, he’s got an international empire nested in the heart of London, and there’s _still_ the bit about terrorism. Your lot isn’t going to catch him. You don’t have the resources, manpower, or experience. Mycroft’s people aren’t going to catch him if they’re dancing around and he kills their agents every so often to remind them to back off. I doubt any foreign government has a better chance of bringing him down. So who is left other than me?”

Lestrade paused, and finally nodded.

“That,” added Sherlock as an afterthought, “and you’re all morons.”

“Always have to end with being a bastard, don’t you.”

The car pulled into a side street, and Lestrade rolled to a halt, parking the car and switching off the engine. He and Sherlock clambered out and glanced around, but the street was quiet, as usual, and they strode towards their destination—a building recently gutted for renovations, empty for weeks first due to delays with funding and now due to the fact that Shan of the Black Lotus Tong had been shot in the head in the foyer.

Sherlock and Lestrade had been here several times during the week. The building was still empty, Shan’s body long moved to the morgue but construction still on hold while the investigation was ongoing.

Lestrade reached the door first, and held it open for Sherlock. “Careful now. Don’t enter without me.”

Sherlock scowled, and stepped over the threshold. “We’ve been doing this for days. Nothing’s happened yet, and Moriarty is unlikely to kill me right off the bat. You’re worrying too much.”

“We don’t know what we’re looking for, we don’t know what this message is going to say, and we don’t _really_ know how soon Moriarty wants you dead,” said Lestrade. “I’m not being cautious enough. I don’t want to die because you’re careless, and I’d rather you weren’t dead either.”

“Right, because it’d be the end of your career,” said Sherlock snidely.

Lestrade glowered. “And yours, since I really doubt you can bring yourself back from the dead.”

“Even I have my limits,” said Sherlock.

“So let’s just be careful not to push them,” said Lestrade, joining Sherlock inside, and the two of them walked through the entryway and into the large bare room where Shan had been killed. “Let’s just be cautious and…”

But Sherlock wasn’t listening. He was looking around the room, and when his eyes fell on the spot where Shan’s body had been, he held up an arm to cut Lestrade off.

Lestrade stopped dead, and looked around. “What? What’s—“ But then he saw it too, and he frowned deeply. “What the…?”

Sherlock slowly walked forward, Lestrade following closely behind him, eyes fixed in place.

“Are those…?” said Lestrade uncertainly.

“Shoes?” finished Sherlock, crouching down to look at the pair of trainers that had been placed in the middle of the faint little patch of blood that marked the spot where Shan had died. “Yes, yes they are.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

“John!”

John looked up from where he was sitting in his chair with a book at the sound of Sherlock shouting from the floor below. A second later, footsteps on the stairs announced Sherlock’s arrival, and the Detective positively bounded into the living room of 221B.

John quickly set down his book, understanding the look on Sherlock’s face. “You found something.”

“I found something,” repeated Sherlock, turning and hurrying into the kitchen.

John leapt to his feet, following Sherlock into the kitchen. “Well? What is it? Is it the message from Moriarty?”

“See for yourself,” said Sherlock dramatically. He spread out a sheet of plastic on part of the kitchen table, and then he revealed the pair of trainers he’d found at the site of Shan’s murder (each sealed in a large plastic evidence bag) and set them down with a flourish, beaming.

John stared at them. “… You… found some shoes?”

“What? No,” said Sherlock, a little thrown by John’s lack of appropriate enthusiasm. “Well, yes, but that’s not the point. They’re from Moriarty. They’re the message.”

John looked at Sherlock, then at the shoes again. “He sent you a pair of shoes…?”

“Yes.”

“… Why? Exactly?”

“No idea,” said Sherlock, lifting one of the shoes to eye level and examining it. “But I’m going to find out.”

“I’m going to be honest,” said John, looking at the trainers with a great deal more skepticism than Sherlock, “this wasn’t what I was expecting Moriarty’s message to be.”

“What did you have in mind?” asked Sherlock absently.

“I dunno, an actual message?” offered John.

Sherlock snorted. “This is much more his style. And so much more interesting.”

“How, precisely?”

“You just can’t stop asking questions, can you,” said Sherlock amusedly.

“Excuse me, but this doesn’t make any bloody sense,” John retorted. “You spend a week looking around for a message from Moriarty, and come back with a pair of shoes which is somehow supposed to be deep and meaningful. Unless knowing Moriarty is a size 6 is helpful, I don’t get it. How do you even know these are the message?”

“They were placed at the site where Shan was killed,” said Sherlock. “That alone means something. They were strategically placed. Meant to get my attention.”

“But how is that a message?”

“It’s a challenge,” said Sherlock, trying to be patient in spite of the fact that John felt a million miles behind him already. “It’s an invitation to play. A little puzzle of sorts. Every case we’ve encountered that bears Moriarty’s signature is one where we had to extrapolate his involvement, or make educated guesses, or we’ve stumbled across him. But this is a puzzle directly from him.”

“But what’s so important about a pair of shoes?” demanded John, rather at a loss as to how this was supposed to be an exciting find.

“No idea,” said Sherlock. “But I’m going to find out.” He crossed over to the sink and started rummaging around, pulling out a microscope and setting it on the table. He stepped past John to the living room, grabbed his laptop from the coffee table, and brought that to the kitchen as well, and then began digging around in the cabinets for new microscope slides, petri dishes, and so on.

John watched. “Wait, you’re not working at Bart’s?” he asked in confusion.

Sherlock shook his head. “Normally I would. But I don’t want anyone involved. If I’m working at home and directing someone else to run any necessary chemical tests there—Molly, perhaps, or even Lestrade in a pinch—then I can keep my work isolated. I don’t have to involve the police or Bart’s or my brother or anyone. I can do this myself.”

“But—“ Here again was Sherlock’s determination that doing things on his own was always the best way, his mantra that ‘alone protects me’. John hadn’t bought it before when it had resulted in Sherlock being abducted. And he didn’t buy it now either. He’d been hoping that Sherlock would have learned this lesson after the Lucky Cat, but apparently not yet. It seemed there was a difference between lecturing John about the minutia of the case and actually asking for help. John said, “But maybe you shouldn’t. Wasn’t Mycroft’s whole point that Moriarty wasn’t the sort of person you should deal with by yourself? That doesn’t just mean you shouldn’t go running around looking for messages alone; it means you shouldn’t work on them alone either. Involving the police or Mycroft isn’t the end of the world. It might be better.”

“In what way would it possibly be better?” asked Sherlock drily. “I don’t want their help. Lestrade and his people will bumble around and make a mess of everything, and Mycroft will overstep and be a controlling pain in the arse just like he always is.”

“But are you sure this is a good idea?” asked John, watching (a little nervously) as Sherlock began spreading his equipment over the kitchen table.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I have a doctorate in chemistry, John, and years of experience dealing with things a lot more intimidating than a pair of old trainers.”

“You know perfectly well that’s not what I—you have a doctorate?” said John, blinking.

Sherlock sighed loudly. “Is it really so hard to believe that I spent a few years letting someone else fund my research and provide me with access to high-quality equipment so that I could acquire just another certified form of justification for people to take my professional opinion seriously?”

“Not when you put it like that,” muttered John.

“You also have a doctorate.”

“Medical doctorate.”

“I’m really not sure why we’re arguing about this.”

“We’re not arguing. Whatever. Anyway,” John went on, “you know that’s not what I was talking about. Are you sure you want to do this without backup? Some kind of official help? I mean, I’m sure Lestrade wasn’t thrilled that you rushed off with evidence that’s also a gift from Moriarty.”

“He knows better than to argue with me about it,” said Sherlock. “And this little gift from Moriarty is for me. Not for Lestrade and his pack of idiots.”

“But…” said John, still feeling uneasy about the entire thing. “I don’t know. Maybe you should give the shoes to the forensics lab before you have a crack at them?” he suggested cautiously. “Just to be safe? I mean—“

Sherlock looked up long enough to give John a disdainful look. “What a dumb idea.”

John glared, and tried, “Or at least get someone to come here and assist—“

“And would you look at that!” interrupted Sherlock, voice practically dripping with fake enthusiasm. “A dumb idea just found a friend.”

John resisted the (potentially fatal) urge to smack Sherlock upside the head, but just barely.

 

~o~O~o~

 

It was a few hours before Sherlock took a break from his silent contemplation of the shoes. John went in and out of the kitchen, making tea, watching Sherlock work, getting something to eat, and none of it broke Sherlock from his very much mute reverie. But one little text did—Sherlock’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at it.

“Mud is from London and Sussex,” he said.

John looked up from his spot in the living room, where he was half asleep in a chair. “Sorry?” he said, blinking himself awake and getting to his feet.

“Mud. London and Sussex,” repeated Sherlock.

“I’m guessing that’s supposed to mean something to me, but it doesn’t,” said John, plodding over to the kitchen and leaning against the counter. “What mud?”

“The mud on the soles of the trainers,” said Sherlock, holding one up and rotating it so that the somewhat muddy heel was facing John.

The long-dried mud looked rather unimpressive to the Doctor, who raised an eyebrow. “How can you possibly know where the mud is from? You’re not a geologist.”

Sherlock set the trainer down on the table. “Results from Bart’s. Lestrade and I dropped off a couple samples at the lab before he drove me back here. Mud, fabric, swabs of the outside and inside. I can do bacterial cultures here—“

“Ugh, Christ, not on the table where we eat.”

“—but I can’t do a full chemical mock-up against a database. I told you, people can help from a distance and leave me alone to do the meaningful analysis in relative peace and quiet. Pollen in the mud from nearby plants is as good as a roadmap to me. London overlaying Sussex.”

“Oh,” said John. “Is that all you’ve figured out?”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly.”

When Sherlock didn’t elaborate, John prompted him. “So…?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why don’t you give it a go?”

“Give what a go?”

“See what you can figure out,” said Sherlock. “From the shoes. Explore my process.”

John snorted, and said, “No, thanks.”

“Go on, try.” Sherlock pushed one of the shoes in John’s direction across the table.

John sighed in exasperation. “I’m not going to humiliate myself trying to—“

“Oh, come on,” interrupted Sherlock. “A second opinion is very useful to me. And you’ve proven yourself at least somewhat competent in the past. You caught on well enough with the cabbie. And with Mycroft. And with the sniper’s movements in Afghanistan.”

“Don’t patronize me,” said John gruffly, but after a pause he relented, and once he’d pulled on a pair of rubber gloves he picked up the shoe. He cleared his throat, turning the sneaker over in his hands. “Just a pair of shoes,” he said.

“Surely you can do better than that,” said Sherlock, sitting back.

“Um…” said John, angling the shoe this way and that. “They’re in good nick. Fairly new, from the looks of them… though the sole is pretty worn, so then the owner must have had them for a while and been pretty meticulous about taking care of them. Something of an 80’s look to them, so a retro design, maybe.”

“You’re in sparkling form. What else?”

John rolled his eyes, but went on, “Probably a man’s, judging from the size, but…” He looked more closely at the inside of the shoe. “There’s a name written here, so—well, a boy’s, since adults don’t write their names in shoes.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good. What else?”

John set the shoe back on the table. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. How did I do?”

“Well, John,” said Sherlock with an approving little grin. “Really well.”

John smiled a bit.

“I mean, you missed everything important, but…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” John picked up the shoe and tossed it to Sherlock with a scowl. “Go on, show-off. What did I miss?”

Sherlock caught the trainer and held it up. “It was a kid. And he clearly loved these. You’re right that he was meticulous in caring for them. You can see they’ve been cleaned, and re-laced, several times. Three—no, four times. But you can see traces of flaky skin from his fingers on the new laces and around the inner edge, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are British-made. Twenty years old.”

“Twenty…?” said John, briefly forgetting to be annoyed.

“They’re not retro, they’re original,” said Sherlock, holding up his phone for John to see. It was open to a page listing an identical pair of shoes for sale, with ‘LIMITED EDITION TWO BLUE STRIPES, 1989’ very visible in the title of the advert.

“But—“ said John, frowning, picking up the second shoe. “There’s still _mud_ on the bottoms. They look brand new!”

“Someone’s kept them that way,” said Sherlock. “Perfectly preserved for more than twenty years.” As John peered at the shoes, Sherlock went on, “And the pollen in the mud shows, thanks to a little chemical analysis courtesy of the Bart’s lab staff, that the shoes were worn in Sussex and then London, so…“

“Christ, I need a drink.”

“So,” continued Sherlock, “we know the child in question came from Sussex to London twenty years ago and left his shoes behind.”

“So what happened to him?” asked John.

“Something bad?” suggested Sherlock. “Just look at these shoes. He loved these shoes. Why would he take care of them so religiously and then abandon them? So we have a boy with big feet and eczema who—“ Sherlock stopped dead, eyes wide with sudden comprehension. “Oh.”

“What?” said John eagerly. “What?”

“Carl Powers,” said Sherlock reverently.

John paused, frowning. “I’m sorry?”

“Carl Powers, John.”

“What’s that?”

Sherlock sat back, his expression transported as the pieces clicked into place. “It’s where I began.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T YOU KNOW, JOHN  
> CARL POWERS IS A SIGN THAT EVERYTHING'S ABOUT TO GO TO HELL IN A HAND BASKET 
> 
> ~
> 
> At last I return! After a bit more of a hiatus than I expected, granted, but the beginning of summer was not quite as smooth and stress-free as I was hoping for. Ah well. I should be expecting that by now, don't you think?  
> In any event, back to regularly scheduled updates for the foreseeable future! Huzzah! Huzzah! It's about time!
> 
> Anywho ~  
> Now, I know what some of you might be thinking -- "please don't tell me you're going to rehash TGG for like ten chapters I don't have that kind of patience", etc. I'm with you there. Which is why, bear with me, I promise this isn't going to be a verbatim retelling of stuff we've seen and read a million times. I have a point with bringing Carl Powers in, and I've done my utmost to jazz up that plot line. ;D And we'll be deviating from the beaten path before too long - new cases, new drama... You'll see what I mean going forward.
> 
> For now, we make due with Donut LestradeTM and Incredibly Snarky JohnTM.  
> That "not my division" scene from TRF has stuck in my brain to the point where donuts are to Lestrade as knitting is to Emerson from Pushing Daisies.
> 
> Hope you're all well and safe and happy. <3 Thanks for sticking with me! You're all wonderful <3


	27. Pulling Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late, but at last, an update!  
> Thanks as ever to my incredible beta [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel) (go read her fics, they're awesome)

“1989. A young kid—champion swimmer—came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament here in London. Drowned in the pool. Tragic accident.” Sherlock held up his mobile for John to see the screen, on which was a picture of the newspaper headline from the incident, now years old. He lowered his phone. “You wouldn’t remember it.”

John frowned, circling the table to sit down across from Sherlock. “But _you_ remember it.”

“Obviously.”

“Something unusual about it?”

“No one else thought so. I read about it in the papers when I was a kid.” Sherlock had his eyes fixed on the shoes sitting on the kitchen table, brow furrowed slightly as he thought back some twenty-one years, five months, nine days, nineteen hours, and forty-seven minutes.

 

The facts were these:

Young Sherlock was twelve years, four months, twenty-nine days, eight hours, and six minutes old when he first heard about Carl Powers.

It was one of those shock-news stories in the paper, and Young Sherlock’s first reaction to it was admittedly one of relative indifference—just another tragic dead-end story—until he read what was almost a throwaway line at the end of the article.

_Of his belongings, only Powers’ shoes are missing from the scene._

The moment he read that sentence, Young Sherlock wasn’t uninterested in Carl Powers anymore.

On the contrary, he was now very, very interested.

And even though his mother, and his father, and his brother all thought Sherlock was getting very excited over a rather uninteresting tidbit from a rather grim and morbid event, Young Sherlock was sure.

Even when the police determined the death was accidental and no one thought twice about it, Young Sherlock was sure.

Carl Powers hadn’t just accidentally drowned at a swim meet, and his shoes were the proof.

 

“You started young, didn’t you?” John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “So why would it seem important to you?”

“Carl Powers had some kind of fit in the water,” said Sherlock. It had been years since he’d given it much thought, but he could recall every detail of the newspaper stories with ease. “He was a good swimmer but he just—seized up. Everyone assumed he’d had some sort of episode. Maybe choked. There was no obvious cause of death. No revealing trauma. Apparently some of the other children tried to help him out of the water once they’d noticed, and the lifeguards did the same, but it was too late. He was dead before the paramedics got there. It was deemed an accident, but there was something wrong. Something I just couldn’t get out of my head.”

“The shoes?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes focused on something far away. “He’d left all of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes…” He glanced at the pristine trainers. “… Until now.”

John held up a hand. “Hang on. So you think his twenty-year-old shoes, delivered courtesy of Moriarty, are going to help you prove Powers didn’t just drown?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you understand that this sounds insane. That you think Moriarty is helping you to solve a murder.”

Sherlock gave John a withering look. “Moriarty gave us these shoes to see if I would find my way back to Carl Powers. So think. Why would he have these shoes some twenty years after the fact unless he’d acquired them when Carl Powers actually died? Moriarty almost certainly had to be connected with Carl’s death. Even if he isn’t personally responsible, we already know he’s sponsored killers. And hires them.”

“So he’s bragging about getting away with murdering children? This is like his own personal talent show?” said John, looking at the shoes with a newfound level of revulsion.

“It’s not like it’s a major mental leap. Try to keep up,” said Sherlock exasperatedly.

“I’m sorry, you come around to the idea of someone murdering a little boy a lot faster than I do,” said John, just a little cross.

“People die all the time. _You’ve_ died,” said Sherlock offhandedly.

John glared. “Carl Powers was _eleven_. There’s a difference between a little kid being murdered and a thirty-six-year-old soldier dying in active service. There’s a _big_ fucking difference.”

“Technically you were _both_ murdered,” said Sherlock.

John threw his hands in the air. “Are you always this blasé about innocent people dying?”

“Death doesn’t disturb me.” Sherlock looked closely at John, expression inscrutable. “You’ve been with me for over a month and a half now. You’ve seen my methods; you know what I do. You know what I _can_ do. Everything I do is intimately tied up with death and dying. I’m not going to get emotionally invested in every death I investigate—it’s not practical. If I shed a tear for every dead person I’ve come across in my work, I’d have died of dehydration years ago. You can get wrapped up in the horror of it all you like. But I’m looking for answers.”

John looked away.

“Look,” said Sherlock, trying to find some sort of compromise between John’s roiling sea of emotional subjectivity and his own objective logical high ground. Even if he thought needing to do so was ridiculous. “Think about it this way. Carl Powers was thought to have died in an accident. We might finally be able to prove how he _really_ died. Which means bringing the responsible party to justice. Focus on that, instead of on how terrible the death itself is. We can’t bring Carl Powers back. Not really, anyway. But we can make sure Moriarty pays for it, if we can use this as an opportunity to learn more about him.”

John sighed heavily, but finally nodded. “Fine. So what can I do? I want to help.”

“Right now, there’s nothing you can do,” said Sherlock, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. “Actually,” he amended, “you can make sure Lestrade leaves me alone.”

John pursed his lips. “You want me to make sure Lestrade leaves you alone,” he repeated. “That’s my job.”

“And Mycroft. And everyone else, in fact,” said Sherlock, already prepping a slide for the microscope.

“So you can work in silence on your own as usual?” said John, trying not to sound too judgmental and failing miserably.

But Sherlock didn’t respond, and after a moment, John made his way back to the living room, exchanging something of a knowing look with the skull on the mantelpiece as he went.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Evening was setting in, the street beyond the windows growing dark, when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. John let her in, glancing into the kitchen at Sherlock (who didn’t seem to have even heard the door) as he did so.

“Back on his feet?” asked Mrs. Hudson, following John’s gaze. Besides John, she was the only person who’d seen the state Sherlock was in before he and Mycroft had made up the week before.

“And back to work,” said John.

“Is he ever not working?” said their landlady knowingly, stepping over the threshold carrying a tray laden with things for tea for John and Sherlock.

“Good question,” said John, moving to clear off the coffee table while Mrs. Hudson held the tray out for him.

“Poison,” mumbled Sherlock.

John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged looks.

“ _Poison_ ,” repeated Sherlock, loudly now.

Mrs. Hudson glanced over her shoulder at him, still holding out the tea tray for John. “What are you going on about, Sherlock?”

Sherlock slammed his hands down on the kitchen table. “ _Clostridium botulinum_!”

Mrs. Hudson squeaked in surprise and dropped the tray. John just barely caught it, the teapot wobbling dangerously and the sugar tipping over.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and whirled about to look at the pair of them. “Clostridium botulinum!” he said again, waving his hands forcefully.

Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a scolding look, and patted John on the arm. “Good luck with him,” she said, and hurried out of the flat and back down the stairs.

John looked at Sherlock, frowning. “What’s clostri-whatever you said?”

“It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!” said Sherlock impatiently, holding up a shoe and waving it around.

“Then how did no one notice it?” asked John.

“It’s virtually undetectable. No one would have even considered looking for it. And they didn’t have the shoes. It might have been on his skin, but it was more likely that it had moved to his bloodstream by the time he died, and who would suspect that the kid was murdered?” Sherlock had something of a triumphant gleam in his eye. “Remember the shoelaces?”

“Yes?”

“Flaky skin on the laces from eczema. Powers would have needed medication. Likely used creams to help with his skin.” Sherlock retreated back to the kitchen, and John followed, setting the tray on the counter before returning his attention to Sherlock’s findings. Sherlock was gesturing to his microscope. “He would have touched the ointments and applied them to his skin, to his feet. There are traces of the poisonous bacteria inside the shoe, and the laces. It’s long dead now, but then it would have been potent and easy enough to do. It wouldn’t be that challenging to introduce the poison into his medication in quantities adequate to kill him. It only takes seventy-five milligrams of toxin to be deadly.”

“I’m disturbed that you just know that off the top of your head,” said John, but he nodded. “How did the killer—how did Moriarty, assuming it’s him, get his hands on that kind of poison?”

“That’s what’s so dangerous about it,” said Sherlock feverishly. “The toxin can, theoretically, be manufactured at home. It develops in low-oxygen environments from the same spores that create the bacteria associated with food poisoning. Incubating it from spoiled canned foods, if you know how to identify and isolate the bacteria, wouldn’t be that hard.”

John ran his fingers through his hair, horrified. “Are you seriously telling me that Moriarty basically cooked up a poison in his kitchen so he could murder a little kid?”

Sherlock nodded. “Introduce the poison into his medications—into the skin creams, particularly—and it would enter directly into the blood stream as he applied the medication to his feet. Paralysis a couple hours later as the toxin is carried all throughout the body, and death follows almost immediately by nerve shutdown and associated asphyxiation. And drowning didn’t help.”

“But why?” asked John.

“’Why’ doesn’t matter,” said Sherlock.

“I think you’ll find it does,” protested John.

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t. We can speculate as to why Moriarty would kill Powers all night, but we’re never going to be able to determine an answer from the data we have. Only Moriarty knows that. It could be a contract killing, a personal vendetta, a random act of cruelty, an act against the boy’s parents, it could be anything. We aren’t going to be able to figure out why. Not yet. We just have to figure out _how_ , and we have. We know how Carl Powers was killed and I’m willing to bet that Moriarty had a personal hand in it. That’s the point of giving us the shoes in the first place. That’s what we were intended to figure out.” Sherlock pulled off his rubber gloves and chucked them in the bin. “I think the only insight we have regarding motive is that Moriarty had the shoes in the first place.”

“Because?”

“Because he kept them. Preserved them. Like they were some kind of trophy.”

John grimaced. “Trophy.”

“Serial killers like trophies,” said Sherlock.

“No shit, Captain Obvious. But then why is _this_ his message?” asked John. “What’s the point in sending you something linked to a crime that’s decades old? Why incriminate himself if he’s gotten away with it for this long?”

“I think this is Moriarty’s way of sharing something personal,” said Sherlock, looking again at the shoes. “If my suspicions are right, then this was probably Moriarty’s first kill.”

John swallowed thickly, the entire idea making him feel sick. “Carl Powers was his _first_ victim?”

Sherlock nodded, sitting back. “This murder is, as you just said yourself, a couple decades old. Everything Moriarty chooses to share with us has importance. Every detail matters. Keeping the shoes suggests either hiding them because they could have compromising evidence, or keeping them as a sort of memento. I would hazard a guess that the latter is more likely. And so, if this was the first person he killed, then it says something about how long he’s been in operation. And how long he’s been getting away with all manner of crime.”

John rubbed his eyes. “Oh my _God_.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, thinking. “If so, it doesn’t give us much to go on.”

“But—“

“Carl Powers was eleven years old when he was killed, and his death was over twenty years ago. So anyone younger than, say, about thirty is too young to be Moriarty. But anyone Carl’s age or older who could have gotten close to him at any time could have killed him. So we can infer that Moriarty is probably at least thirty years old.”

“Great. Because that makes it _so much easier_ to find—“

“Male, at least thirty, who could have been in London in 1989 at least long enough to poison a child.” Sherlock took a deep breath, thinking. “I might wonder if he had some sort of further connection to Carl, but there’s no way to know. He either knew Carl and knew his habits or medical history, or was smart enough to see that the easiest way to kill him was through his medication. Proving how clever Moriarty is.”

“So the only thing we’ve learned from this little puzzle he sent you is that Moriarty’s as twisted and clever as we thought all along, and he’s had twenty-odd years of time to hone his skills undetected,” said John, feeling more and more anxious.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and—smirked. “He’s trying to impress me.”

John blinked. “… _What_?”

“He’s trying to impress me,” said Sherlock again. “And he’s doing a _fantastic_ job.”

John groaned.

“What?”

“It’s like you’ve made it your personal mission to unsettle me as much as possible in solving this case,” John said wearily. “You’re having fun. A psychopathic crime lord is sending you puzzles about his life and you’re over the moon about it.”

“Hard not to be,” said Sherlock. “It’s very original.”

“Just—let’s just be careful?” pleaded John. “We don’t know what he’s hoping to get out of all of this. He has to have a reason for sharing so much with you.”

“I’m sure he wants to either tempt me into partnering up with him, or kill me,” said Sherlock carelessly, waving a hand.

“But you’d never team up with him,” said John firmly. “So he’ll want to kill you sooner or later, when he figures that out.”

Sherlock looked at John for a moment. John always spoke with a surprising amount of conviction when he commented on what Sherlock was or wasn’t capable of. Sherlock had already started to get used to John’s knack for insight, for his ability to surprise Sherlock, and read him. Maybe that was how he could be so sure of Sherlock’s principles in spite of how new their partnership was. Or maybe it was the soldier in him, insisting that the cause he was fighting for had to be the good and just one.

Either way, there was something nice about it—about having someone determinedly fighting his moral corner. It was certainly a change from Lestrade’s people, with Donovan or Anderson muttering derisively in the background.

“Probably,” said Sherlock finally. “So let’s just catch him before he kills us, shall we?”

“Sounds like a good idea, yeah. So how do we do that?” asked John.

 “We wait.”

“For what?”

“For the next message.”

John paled a little. “The _next_ message. Right. There’s going to be a next message?”

“Oh, I think so,” said Sherlock. “I think this is just the beginning. It’s all going to lead somewhere.”

John rubbed his eyes. “I guess we learned something of significance about Moriarty from this. He made it a point to show you how long he’s been doing this with no one noticing. He’s got an empire that’s decades in the making. I get that. It’s an intimidating point.”

“Psychopaths crave appreciation. They crave challenges,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. “He’s gone so long without being noticed. I doubt many have even gotten close to pinning anything on him—Mycroft and the rest of MI5 were closest, perhaps, but Moriarty shut them down with relative ease. But we’ve been dancing around one another for weeks, and so far I’m not dead and I’m still looking. My track record for solving complex cases is nigh on spotless. And I’m a lot cleverer than MI5.”

“So, you’ve impressed him, and now he wants to impress you back?” asked John, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s like a game to the pair of you, isn’t it? You share little tidbits back and forth until—what, exactly?”

“Until he tells me too much and we catch him,” offered Sherlock. “It’s the only lead we have. You know as well as I do that this is all we have to go on.”

John scowled. “So, you tell him you solved this and wait for the next puzzle as a reward. Great. I love playing mind games with terrorists.”

“You’re such a killjoy,” said Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes. “So how are you planning on contacting him? Putting the shoes back with a little ‘you are appreciated’ Hallmark card?”

“So bitter, John.” Sherlock opened his laptop, and went to his blog, starting a new post.

He’d shown the blog to John just a few days before, and though John wasn’t sure that anyone other than Sherlock would ever be interested in blog topics like the differences between two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash, he did think it made sense to have an archive of his investigations. John had his notebook; Sherlock had his blog.

Sherlock typed:

 

_FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present._

 

He posted it.

John read the blog post over Sherlock’s shoulder from a safe distance. “You think that’ll be enough to get his attention?”

“Should be,” said Sherlock. “I’m willing to bet Moriarty will be monitoring for any sort of response from me. This is the most obvious line of communication from me to him. Unless he wants to give me his number.”

“If he did, you could go for coffee,” said John, but the attempt at sarcastic humor was utterly wasted on Sherlock, since he probably _would_ go for a nice chat over coffee if it was with a criminal as interesting as this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John expresses his stress in the form of limitless snark, clearly
> 
> ~
> 
> When I was planning this part of the story, I had a specific goal in mind regarding these cases, and this chapter goes into a little more detail as to what I intended and why I would use Carl Powers to start us off. The whole point of the puzzles from Moriarty is for him to subtly intimate important personal details to Sherlock -- in this case, it's all about how long Moriarty has been doing this criminal mastermind thing, perfecting his skills, building his empire... It just so happens Sherlock's been doing it for the same amount of time. How perfect.  
> There's another puzzle coming up (you called it, Sherlock), but this one is less directly transcribed from TGG. I shall say nothing more on the subject for now; you'll just have to wait and see what insanity I've got in store.
> 
> That said, I hope this case proved interesting anyway! I always wanted more detail on the Carl Powers thing in the show... with a lot of shows when people mention obscure deadly toxins, we all just sort of nod and go 'right, that's totally deadly' without demanding more info, but I live to research anything and everything. I probably spend about as much time researching things I'm writing about as I do actually writing. Gotta love Google. So I wanted to make the Carl Powers case more interesting to read about by adding in more information about botulinum effects and production that they didn't have time for in the show. 
> 
> Also (and I make no promises, but) I'm desperately hoping for a mini update-bomb towards the end of July (by which I mean a couple weekly updates in a row or something of that ilk, to make up for past slowness). Since that's sort of this fic's birthday and because why not. We'll see how that goes but for now, know I fill just about every free minute I have with frenzied typing. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Your support and feedback means a lot! <3


	28. The Puppetmaster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day late because of work being hideously busy, but here we are --
> 
> As always, thanks to my lovely lovely beta [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel) <3

The next day came and went with no developments. Sherlock and John found themselves passing the time by speculating about the next message (a pastime which really only made John anxious and Sherlock impatient, but they did it anyway). Sherlock updated Lestrade with pertinent shoe-related details and agreed to give him a full report on his work, and he even sent Mycroft a few texts about the events of the last two days. He and John talked all evening—and then late into the night—about everything they knew about Carl Powers and rare poisons and speculative guesses about Moriarty, until finally a half-asleep John had to admit defeat and make his way up to bed. It only took John a couple of minutes to fall asleep, but Sherlock sat awake, rereading old articles about Carl Powers and thinking about the next message.

He knew there would be another one. That much was certain. He knew that he and Moriarty would be locked into this back-and-forth, give-and-take game until one of them made a mistake or did something… ‘drastic’.

John was bothered by it. John was bothered by the whole thing. Sherlock found it exciting—how many criminals were there like Moriarty, after all?—but John was entirely the opposite. _He has to have a reason for sharing so much with you_ , John kept insisting. And John had a point.

But Sherlock had a – _feeling_ , as unusual as that was. A gut feeling that there was a connection between him and Moriarty that he couldn’t explain. Something more complicated than just that they were both clever, or that they’d both been fascinated with the criminal underworld in one way or another for a long time.

Not that he could explain that vague connection, or had a clue what it was. John would be disturbed by the idea. Sherlock didn’t really understand it himself. He just knew that it was true. Something about the events they’d explored in connection with Moriarty—all the way back from Carl Powers to the Black Lotus to Jeff Hope to John’s death—was just…

Different.

There’d be another message in no time.

And perhaps more answers with it.

At least, he hoped so.

By the time the sun had risen over the rooftops of Baker Street, Sherlock had written a summary of his work with the shoes and its implications for the decades-old record of Carl Powers’ death.

While most of London was preparing to get to work, he was in the process of packing all of his materials to hand over to Lestrade. He and the policeman had made plans a little earlier that morning to go out and look for the next message (after all, there was little point in sitting around when Sherlock knew there would be another puzzle to solve any day), and the Detective intended to hand his findings over so that an official investigation could begin without delay. Then, if all things went according to plan, he and Lestrade would find the next puzzle, and Sherlock could once more sequester himself in 221B with no one but John, Mrs. Hudson, and the occasional emailed lab test result (courtesy of Molly Hooper) to bother him. Which was better than being bothered by Lestrade, and Lestrade’s miserable underlings, and Mycroft, and Mycroft’s odious underlings.

Sherlock glanced at the stairs leading up to John’s room, but there was no sign that the man upstairs was planning to move voluntarily anytime soon.

Fortunately, he’d already established a protocol for this type of situation some two weeks, four days, one hour, and six minutes earlier.

Grabbing a pillow off a chair as he went, Sherlock walked up the stairs and knocked on John’s door. When there was no response, he turned the handle and pushed it open to find that, predictably, John was still asleep. Carefully taking aim, he chucked the pillow at John’s head, where it connected solidly and bounced away over the side of the bed.

“Christ alive!” spluttered John, sitting bolt upright and looking around in all directions. He caught sight of Sherlock standing at the door through bleary eyes and sank back onto the bed with a look of deepest loathing. “You absolute _bellend_.”

“You’d think you’d be getting used to that by now,” said Sherlock.

“You’ve got to find a better way to wake me up,” replied John groggily, rubbing his eyes. “This got old after the first time.”

“I could poke you with my harpoon, if that’s preferable.”

John seemed to have a particularly difficult time puzzling out this statement. “Why do you have a harpoon?” he asked finally.

“Why wouldn’t I have a harpoon?”

“I’m too tired for this,” mumbled John. “Fuck off. And I swear to God, if you chuck another pillow at my head, I’m going to—“

“That’s nice. Up you get,” said Sherlock. “I’m going out with Lestrade to look for the next message in a bit, and I was hoping for some tea before then.”

John rolled over, burying his face in the covers. “Make it yourself.”

“I’m busy. Aren’t you a soldier? Shouldn’t you be ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice whenever a crisis arises?”

John raised his arm enough to make a rude hand gesture. “You wanting tea is not a crisis. I’ve only had four hours’ sleep.”

“I haven’t had any sleep, but you don’t hear me complaining,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, but you’re practically a vampire, so.”

“ _What_ are you _talking_ about?”

“You never sleep, you don’t eat, and you’re only interested in things involving blood or dead people.”

“Come _on_ , John, quit babbling and get up,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes and turning around to go back down the stairs. “Things are finally interesting again and all you want to do is sleep?”

“Pretty much,” grumbled John, but after a couple more minutes, he dragged himself out of bed and started dressing for the day, pausing every few seconds to yawn.

Back in the kitchen, Sherlock finished editing his notes on the Carl Powers case and emailed them to Lestrade, before he packed up the shoes and samples. Sherlock was confident he’d solved the case in its entirety, and now the paperwork could be given to less intelligent people. Sherlock had better things to do. Namely, get ready for the next puzzle from Moriarty.

He could hear the sporadic thuds that marked John opening and closing dresser drawers and bathroom cabinets overhead. Progress.

Sherlock dropped the last sample into the box for Lestrade, and then carried his laptop back to the table by the windows in the living room. He bent over to refresh the page—open to his blog post about the shoes—but there was nothing. No comments.

He straightened, looking down at the screen. It wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t expected Moriarty to reach out in such an obvious fashion. Especially not in a fashion that could have been, theoretically, traced through IP addresses. Moriarty would be the only person who would comment on a post like this one, so any comment would have been worth tracing. But no, it wasn’t going to be that easy. Moriarty would find another way to point Sherlock in the direction of the next message. He just had to be watching for it.

Sherlock sighed, shut his laptop, and turned back to the kitchen.

There was a loud _BANG_ , and a fraction of a second later, the windows at Sherlock’s back were blown in.

Shattered glass was blasted around the room with a concussive burst of air that sent glass shards and loose papers flying in all directions, and hurled Sherlock to the ground. He hit the floor hard, along with half the contents of the room blasted off tables or falling from shelves, in an instant.

All the sound in the world was quickly reduced from an earth-shattering bang to a high and endless ring—an internal, distant, broken alarm bell, and an absence of all other thought.

 

~o~O~o~

 

John was making his bed when the floor suddenly shuddered beneath his feet with a thunderous crash. He stumbled, catching himself to stay upright, and his heart skipped a beat.

By the time he’d straightened up, there was a faint smell of smoke in the air.

He could see it rising in the street beyond his bedroom window.

Without a moment’s hesitation, it was as if his body had traveled some five thousand six hundred kilometers in a matter of a few seconds, ignoring all the basic rules about time only moving forward and space maintaining distance between two faraway places. If someone had asked him where he was, he wasn’t sure what he would have said. It didn’t matter that less than sixty seconds earlier, John had been dazedly pulling on a sweater and wishing for a few more minutes of sleep in his comfortable bed in a London flat. Now, the shudder underfoot, the crash from outside, the smell of smoke—these things had the power to bend space and shift time so that one could have plucked John from the middle of a bombed street in Sangin forty-nine days, one hour, and six minutes ago, and he wouldn’t have been any less sure of what to do.

It had been like this at the Lucky Cat as well. The Soldier had been called to the front.

John leapt to his feet, shoving an ID in his back pocket and grabbing his gun out of the drawer in his bedside table, before he hurried to the bedroom door. He held the gun in hand as he descended the stairs quickly but carefully. The air was filled with a cloud of dust before he reached the bottom, a dense haze of smoke and particles only just beginning to settle, giving the air a greyish tinge. John’s foot touched the bottom of the stairs with a crunch of broken glass.

He couldn’t see movement anywhere. He could barely see anything, for that matter, and what little he could make out was covered in a layer of dust, glass, and debris.

The windows had been blown in from outside; there was smoke in the street billowing from the upper floor of a building opposite them. A bomb, maybe, in the building across the way. One explosion, one site of detonation—close enough to hurt them, but not so close as to kill them, not outright.

“Sherlock?” John called, diverting to the kitchen just long enough to grab a pair of rubber gloves left on the counter. He stashed his gun in the back of his trousers and pulled the gloves on over the cuffs of his shirt, to shield any exposed skin. He coughed, the thick air weighing on his lungs, and called again, even louder, as he turned back to the living room. “ _Sherlock_?”

There was an answering groan from near the windows, and John hurried towards it around the chairs until he could make out a shifting mass on the floor that had to be the Detective.

John crouched down next to Sherlock, who tried to sit up until John held him down with one careful hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, speaking loudly, knowing Sherlock’s ears would be ringing. “Don’t move just yet. Can you hear me?”

“Just about,” said Sherlock from the floor, very loudly. Ears definitely ringing, then. He shifted and coughed. “We need to…”

“Yeah, I know,” said John, peering closely at Sherlock’s head and neck through the haze with one hand still on Sherlock’s shoulder. “But I need to make sure you _can_ move, and if you try to get up you might kill me, so hold still.”

Sherlock froze obligingly, though John thought this was probably more because his head was swimming than anything else. He couldn’t see any blood besides the few cuts and scrapes from the broken glass. He touched the back of Sherlock’s neck lightly, and nothing seemed obviously damaged.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“Very loud,” said Sherlock, the volume of his voice reflecting that.

John glanced out the window. He could see smoke billowing up past the broken windows, the acrid smell combined with the still-settling dust making it hard to focus on much of anything besides the challenge of breathing. But they needed to move—that much was obvious.

He carefully had Sherlock sit up, keeping a gloved hand on his neck to keep his head from wobbling too much. “We shouldn’t stay here,” said John. “We need to get downstairs.”

Sherlock bobbed his head once in a dizzy nod. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said, glancing towards the stairs.

At the mention of their landlady’s name, John’s already racing adrenaline picked up a little more. With luck, the lower level near her own apartment wouldn’t be too badly damaged, but she was older, would have no idea what had happened, and might be badly shaken.

“I’ll get her,” said John firmly, taking charge. “But first I need to get you up. Do you think you can stand?”

Sherlock sucked in air to issue an indignant ‘Obviously’, but instead the viscous air dragged its way into his lungs and he exploded into a fit of coughing. He waved a dismissive hand in between coughs.

John got quickly to his feet and scanned the shattered windows and what he could see of the street beyond before he crossed quickly to the front door of the flat. He moved purposefully, in a way that meant he was braced to take cover if there was another blast. He grabbed Sherlock’s scarf from where it hung on a peg next to his coat, and returned to the windows. He crouched, offering the scarf to Sherlock.

“Cover your mouth and nose with this,” he said, as Sherlock took it. “It was far enough back from the windows that it doesn’t have too much dust. Might make it easier for me to help you up too. Let’s get you downstairs and then I’ll get Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck and dragged it up over the lower half of his face. “I can get up on my own—“

John put an arm under one of Sherlock’s and carefully raised him to off the floor, ignoring Sherlock’s protests and taking great care to keep the exposed skin of his own neck away from Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock gave up protesting and let John lift him up, cautiously, but he stepped away once he was firmly on his feet. He looked out the window, out across the debris-strewn street beyond. “Bomb,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else, his mind obviously struggling to get past the tumultuous ringing in his ears.

But John heard him, and he too looked out the windows for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. “You don’t think it was an accident.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“I don’t, either.” John was increasingly aware of the gun nestled against his back. He gestured. “We need to go.”

For once, Sherlock didn’t argue. The two of them crossed through the door of the flat and to the stairs—John carefully leading the way, Sherlock gingerly following—and started down. John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock every few steps, though his primary focus was on assessing the hallway below; but it was empty, with no one in sight.

“I’m going to go get Mrs. Hudson,” said John. “Don’t go out into the street without me.”

“Why not?” asked Sherlock. Then, “Why do you have your gun?”

“Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, and I want to be ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice if a crisis arises,” said John.

Sherlock coughed out a tense laugh. “And to think you’d wanted to sleep in.”

“I still wish I had.”

John reached the bottom of the stairs and went on ahead, hoping Sherlock was able to get down safely on his own and would wait for John before going out to the street. He made his way back to their landlady’s apartments quickly, and paused at the door only long enough to knock. “Mrs. Hudson?”

He opened the door and found her seated at a chair in her little kitchen, evidently halfway through doing her dishes and now with one soapy rubber-gloved hand over her heart.

“John?” she asked, looking up as he hurried over to her. “What on Earth was that crash? It made the whole house move. Frightened me half to death…”

“It looks like there’s been an incident across the street,” replied John gently, absentmindedly checking her pulse. Fast, but that wasn’t surprising. “Sherlock’s in the hall. We’re going to step out to the front entryway for when the police get here, all right?”

“I can’t possibly go out, I’m wearing my slippers…”

It took a couple minutes to persuade Mrs. Hudson to leave her kitchen (after a pair of shoes had been located). Mrs. Hudson leaned on one of his arms as they stepped into the entryway.

Miraculously, Sherlock had remained at the foot of the stairs when John and Mrs. Hudson stepped into the entryway. He was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, scarf tugged down from his mouth. “Police on their way,” he said. He looked even paler than usual under all the dust, his dark hair almost grey.

Sure enough, there was an audible wail of sirens outside within a few minutes. John opened the front door just enough to see a swarm of police cars, fire engines, and ambulances flooding the street. He waited until he saw Lestrade leap out of the leading car and head straight for 221B, and then he opened the door the rest of the way to greet the inspector on the steps.

“John!” called Lestrade in relief, hurrying up to him and clapping him on the shoulder, glancing at the demolished building on the other side of the street as he went. “What the hell happened here?”

“I’m hoping you can tell me,” said John. “It wasn’t us, obviously, and we didn’t have any warning.”

“You don’t think…?” began Lestrade, looking across the street again with a worried expression on his face.

John shook his head. “I’m letting Sherlock do the thinking on this one. I don’t want to start speculating. But…” He and Lestrade stepped over the threshold, and John continued, “We’re all down here. Everyone’s fine, though Sherlock and Mrs. H should probably both get checked out by the paramedics just to be safe.”

“No hospitals?” asked Lestrade.

“I’d sooner jump off the roof,” came Sherlock’s sour drawl from the foot of the stairs, and the Detective straightened, coming forward to meet Lestrade.

“Glad to see you’re all right,” said Lestrade. “Though you look about seventy with all that dust in your hair.”

Mrs. Hudson coughed rather loudly.

 

~o~O~o~

 

“Probably just a gas leak, I’m being told,” said Lestrade a short while later, speaking to Sherlock and John as they leaned against the back of an ambulance.

Sherlock had insisted that he didn’t need any x-rays or neck braces (or anything else for that matter), instead directing any and all attempts at offering him medical advice to Mrs. Hudson, who was now chatting away animatedly with a paramedic in the back of an ambulance opposite them. To everyone’s collective relief, she was all right as well—nothing a “cup of – uh, _herbal tea_ ”, as she called it, couldn’t fix. John had been the go-between, scolding Sherlock and reassuring Mrs. Hudson until, at last, the situation had calmed down. The building across from 221B was no longer burning, the fire extinguished and the smoke dissipating. A number of firemen and police officers had entered the building perhaps an hour earlier to check it out, and Lestrade—who had been organizing the emergency responders—had at last made his way to the ambulances to fill them in.

“A gas leak,” repeated Sherlock, with just a hint of skepticism.

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Lestrade said again. “And I’m as dubious as you are, Sherlock, but keep in mind that no one else at the Yard _really_ knows about Moriarty. And, in their defense, you have to find evidence of a bomb for it to have been a bomb.”

“Since the investigation has not yet concluded, I’ll reserve my belief for later.”

“Seemed like a dispersed detonation, if you ask me,” said John, more to himself than anyone else. Lestrade and Sherlock both turned their heads to look at him, and after a pause, John continued, “Well, uh… there was a definite bang. But more than that, there wasn’t much of a fire, from what I could see. Lots of force, enough to knock Sherlock down and blow out the side of that building, and plenty of smoke, but not a lot of fire. Gas leaks are like that, sure, but so are dispersed explosives. And with those there’d be minimal cratering and the damage would look more like a gas leak. But Greg’s right,“ he concluded, nodding to Lestrade. “The only way to know depends on if there are fragments of a condensed explosive lying around in the wreckage. Or residue on anything in there.”

“So we’ll know soon enough, once the bomb squad’s finished up,” said Lestrade. “Then we can fix up your place and put together a proper plan of action.”

“We have a plan of action,” objected Sherlock. “You and I need to look for Moriarty’s next message.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “No offense, but this has to take priority. We’re lucky the building that blew up was empty, but there’s an entire street of people that need to be secured and reassured.”

“I’m sure it’ll be a great comfort to them to know that their pointless panic is giving a criminal mastermind time to strike,” grumbled Sherlock, but Lestrade ignored him.

“What does Mycroft think?” asked the policeman.

“He thinks it’s worth coming here to see for himself,” said Sherlock in exasperation. He’d spent a solid thirty minutes trying to convince Mycroft that there was nothing to worry about, to no avail. “Potential bomb threat and terrorist implications and whatnot.”

“He’s just trying to help,” said John, for at least the tenth time in an hour.

“I don’t _need_ help,” said Sherlock, also for the tenth time in an hour. “This is a distraction, not a problem, if it really is just a gas leak.”

“But what if _this_ is Moriarty’s message?” said John pointedly.

Sherlock paused, frowning, looking at the ruined building. “Well,” he said finally, “if the point was to kill me, it wasn’t very effective. If the point was to get my attention…”

“Mission accomplished,” said John.

“Let’s just wait for the bomb squad to give us a ruling,” said Lestrade, looking uneasy, and both he and John nodded.

“Sir?” called Donovan’s voice. She had poked her head out of the remains of the front door from the destroyed building across the street, and was looking at Lestrade. “We need you inside.”

Lestrade hurried away.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” asked John, as they watched Lestrade disappear into the building.

“ _Yes_ ,” answered Sherlock wearily. “I only fell over, John.”

“As a result of an explosion which was strong enough to knock out the windows and wreck a building, yeah,” John pointed out. “I’m just making sure.”

“Nothing to worry about,” said Sherlock firmly. “I’m fine, Mrs. Hudson is fine, you’re fine—we’re all fine. And your initial response to the whole thing was very prompt and competent.”

John smirked, just a little. “Is that a compliment?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though he smiled a little as well. “I suppose so,” he said. “Your medical insight and your experience handling crises of this particular nature proved rather helpful, that’s all.”

John continued to smile. “It’s my job,” he said. “Sort of. It was my job, before. At least I know I serve a purpose when shit like this happens.”

“You always serve a purpose,” said Sherlock, in a tone that said it was idiotic that John needed to be told this.

John looked at him.

“I wouldn’t keep you around if you didn’t serve a purpose,” said Sherlock.

“Oh?” said John. “And what purpose is that?”

“I’d say making me tea, but you sort of never got around to it this morning, on account of rescuing everyone from an explosion.”

“Don’t be a smart-arse.”

“Why not? That’s _my_ purpose.”

John snorted. “All right, now you’re just making fun of me.”

Before Sherlock could reply, Lestrade’s voice interrupted. “Sherlock!”

It was Lestrade’s tone that caught Sherlock’s attention. It was decidedly anxious. He looked away from John, frowning, to see Lestrade waving anxiously from across the street.

John noticed too. “Do you think he found something from—“ he said, but Sherlock had already started walking, striding briskly over to Lestrade. John hastened after him.

“Is it Moriarty?” asked Sherlock, once he’d gotten close enough, but Lestrade gestured for him and John to come inside, and the three of them entered. From the outside, the second floor of the building had suffered most of the damage, but even so the ground floor was in surprisingly fair condition. Here, the building had escaped with minimal damage, though there was a great deal of dust and shattered glass scattered around, just like it was at 221B, so that there was a loud crunch with every step they took. There were a number of scorch marks along the ceiling and walls once they moved further into the house.

A handful of policemen and firemen were still lingering around the room, but Lestrade ushered them away. “Give us the room for just a minute?” he said.

When everyone had filed out, the inspector turned back to Sherlock. “Let’s just say I’m not so sure the explosion was an accident,” he said, as he led the way through the front hall and around the corner to the main staircase. At the stairs, he paused, eyes turning down to the floor, and Sherlock and John copied him.

Tucked against the bottom step was a heavy black box. The lid was slightly raised, having already been opened, but otherwise the box looked utterly undisturbed, like it belonged there.

“Bomb squad looked at it and popped the lid to make sure it was safe. Which it is,” said Lestrade, standing back and looking wary nonetheless.

“And it’s definitely for me?” said Sherlock, taking a few measured steps forward to stand in front of the box.

Lestrade nodded. “You’ll see.”

Sherlock crouched down, inspecting the box. It was heavy, the exterior black plastic encasing what appeared to some kind of high-quality stainless steel and insulation, not unlike the protective materials safeguarding airplane flight encoders.

He lifted the lid.

Inside was a layer of protective foam with a depression in the center. Resting there, perfectly situated, was a small piece of pottery—a delicate bowl made of painted white and blue porcelain. Atop the bowl was a small, unsealed envelope made of heavy stationary. Sherlock’s name was written on the outside of the envelope. Sherlock picked it up, turning it over in his hands a few times, and finally opened the envelope, pulling out a single piece of paper.

“What does it say?” asked John, after a long moment of silence in which Sherlock just looked at the paper.

Sherlock held it up mutely, and John stepped closer to read the message. Written with black ink in a small, nondescript scrawl were a handful of words in the center of the page.

 

Hello sexy.

Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers.

I like watching you dance.

M xoxo

 

John blinked. “… _Sexy_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REALLY not appreciating your tone there, John
> 
> ~
> 
> BOOM
> 
> On to the next puzzle! As (I think?) I said before, this one is going to be a little different from the first, because this one isn’t a direct adaptation from TGG, but is instead an “Adaptation-of-Canon a la Llama”… by which I mean I’ve taken another story from canon and modified it to suit my purposes. I hope it proves fun to read!  
> Things have certainly started off with a bang… ba dum tss  
> sorry
> 
> I won’t say much more this time - more to come very soon, along with fun news about some future updates :D
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and for your feedback! All of it, especially comments, mean a lot. :D And I’d love to know what you think of this mini-arc for the next couple chapters, since I’m venturing off the beaten path that is the show. ;D


	29. Human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! finally...
> 
> Thanks to my fabulous beta RoseAngel, as always!

“Uh?” said Lestrade, giving John a weird look.

“Shut up. Look at the note,” said John, gesturing to the paper in Sherlock’s hand.

“May I?” asked Lestrade, and Sherlock again held the note up for Lestrade to see.

It took a full thirty seconds before Lestrade spoke, looking utterly bewildered. “… Sexy?” he said.

“What?” snapped Sherlock, looking between John and Lestrade with a rather irritated expression. “What?”

“Nothing,” said Lestrade. “It’s just—“

“Really, really weird,” said John, who wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or shudder.

Sherlock glanced at the letter. “I suppose it’s a little unusual as far as greetings go, under the circumstances.”

“No shit,” said Lestrade, who was now clearly suppressing a giggle. “But what does it have to do with a piece of pottery? And what’s with the flirting? ’I like watching you dance’… What, is he stalking you?”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s metaphorical. He’s having fun.”

“Fun?” repeated John.

“I told you before—psychopaths crave attention. And one as clever as Moriarty would get bored. _I_ get bored. But this thing he and I have going, with the puzzles, is clearly entertaining for both of us. _That’s_ the point of the note. I didn’t disappoint with my handling of the shoes. He’s inviting me to keep playing. And this—“ Sherlock held up the little dish that had come with the note “—is the next challenge.”

“But what are you supposed to learn from a bowl?” said Lestrade.

Sherlock’s response was thoroughly condescending. “I solved a twenty-year-old murder with a pair of shoes. You _really_ think I can’t figure out what’s significant about an antique saucer?”

“Forget I said anything,” mumbled the policeman.

Sherlock placed the dish and letter back in the box and closed the lid. He got to his feet, picked up the box, and turned to face the other two men. “Well,” he said, speaking to Lestrade, “if you don’t mind, I have a puzzle to solve. I’m going back to Baker Street and getting to work. Don’t bother me.”

“Uh,“ said Lestrade, holding up a hand. “No. You can’t just go back to work like everything’s normal, Sherlock—we need to make sure there aren’t any more surprises lurking around. And if your place is trashed, we should get it fixed up first.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Are you seriously telling me to postpone figuring out what our criminal mastermind, and now also psychopathic bomber, wants?”

“No, I just…” said Lestrade, faltering briefly under the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze, but to everyone’s surprise, he stood his ground. “I let you handle the shoes on your own because I thought it was safe. Just a line of inquiry to follow, like most of the other cases you and I deal with. But I can’t do that anymore, not if there’s a chance people could get seriously hurt while he plays games with you.”

“Moriarty will want me dead sooner or later,” said Sherlock flatly. “You do understand that, right?”

“I’m starting to, yeah,” said Lestrade. “Which means we need to be more careful about this. And I need to be more involved.”

John nodded. “Definitely.”

Sherlock looked between them incredulously. “You’re joking,” he said. “You must be joking. I work _alone_ , how many times am I going to have to explain this?” He turned on his heel and stormed out, the box in his arms. John and Lestrade followed in his wake and nearly bumped into him (John practically leaping backwards in a panic) as Sherlock came to a screeching halt at the front door.

“What are you doing?!” hissed John, before he caught sight of a familiar black sedan parked on the edge of the police perimeter.

Sherlock stepped outside and made a beeline for the car. Again John and Lestrade followed, though John now made a point of staying half a dozen steps back, as Mycroft came into view. “I thought I told you that you didn’t need to come,” said Sherlock, the second Mycroft was within earshot.

The elder Holmes—who had been observing the carnage that was Baker Street with an inscrutable countenance—sighed. “I told you I wasn’t particularly interested in your opinion on the matter. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” Sherlock snapped.

But Mycroft had noticed the box in Sherlock’s arms. “I don’t believe I recognize that.”

Sherlock shifted his grip on the box. “I should think not. It’s from Moriarty.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, which was as close to an open admission of dread as he was capable of. “I thought as much. That explains the explosion. I assume he sent another message?”

Sherlock scowled, but after a pause, he set the box down on the hood of Mycroft’s car and opened the box. He held out the letter to Mycroft, who glanced briefly at the little piece of pottery inside before taking the paper.

Mycroft scanned the letter, and frowned. “Sexy?”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” demanded Sherlock hotly, snatching the letter back out of Mycroft’s hands.

Mycroft looked to Lestrade. “You have everything under control here?”

The policeman nodded. “So far. I’ve made sure I’m in charge of the cleanup and the investigation so we can manage the information going in and out. And the press. And this way I’m nearby if I’m needed. I need to see to the rest of the street anyway. But you and I might want to coordinate and see if we can’t track anyone on the street… And I’ll let you make the call on where they should stay.”

“Stay?” Sherlock cut in. “I’m staying _here_.”

“You can’t possibly stay here,” said Mycroft crisply.

Sherlock slammed the lid of the box shut and picked it up off the hood of Mycroft’s car. John thought he made something of a point of letting the box drag and scratch the paint. “I’m not running away. There’s no reason for me to leave.”

“Sherlock…” tried John.

“No,” said the Detective. “Here is as good as anywhere. If that explosion was supposed to kill me, I would be dead. So you can all stop worrying and save it for when I’m really in danger.”

“You don’t think it prudent to move somewhere more secure?” asked Mycroft pointedly.

“What for? So he can blow up another street to get my attention? So he can focus his energies on more harmful projects once deprived of my distraction? I think not.”

“Then at least try to be patient with the rest of us for exhibiting the appropriate amount of caution _for you_. I don’t need to go upstairs to see that your flat is not equipped for ‘games’ of this nature. I can see the windows blown out from here, and I can infer the likely interior da—“

“I’m not being barred from my own home!” snarled Sherlock. “I need to settle down and work, not be shuffled around from place to place. My equipment is here. Everything I need is here.”

“Under a good dusting of broken glass.”

“Then help me get _that_ sorted out,” Sherlock snapped impatiently. “And if I need anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I can assist with getting your residence repaired. But you can’t use the space for work until it is safe to do so.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a look which showed quite clearly that he was debating how best to go about throttling him. “And how long is that going to take.”

“I suspect a full day,” said Mycroft, who to his credit looked completely unperturbed by Sherlock’s death-glare.

“You want to delay me by twenty-four hours,” said Sherlock warningly.  

“I _insist_ on delaying you by twenty-four hours, if you’re going to insist on keeping 221B as your base of operations for this investigation,” said Mycroft. “You cannot work somewhere that isn’t safe. Consider John, and Mrs. Hudson, if you aren’t going to consider yourself.”

Sherlock spun about to look at John, a sharp look in his eye that demanded support.

John shifted his feet, apologetic. “Mycroft’s right. If I’m supposed to be lying low and everything you need for work is here, then we need to get it cleaned up. So either Mycroft helps or we do it ourselves. And I’d like it done right. To me, it’s worth a short delay.”

Mrs. Hudson appeared at Mycroft’s elbow. “If you boys need a place to sleep until everything is cleaned up, why don’t you use my living room?” she suggested.

“That would be great, thanks,” said John, before Sherlock and Mycroft could start arguing again. He looked at both of them pointedly. “It’s a good compromise. Same building, different location.”

Sherlock ground his teeth. “ _Fine_ ,” he said darkly, and then to Mycroft he went on, “Take care of it. I’m going to get whatever I need for the day and start work.”

“Be…” started Mycroft, but Sherlock had already turned his back on them and stalked away to the house. “… cautious,” he finished, to no one in particular. “If that’s even possible.”

John rubbed the back of his neck wearily. “Sorry, on his behalf. Thank you all for helping with this.”

“I’m having the windows replaced with bulletproof glass,” sighed Mycroft, while Mrs. Hudson patted him on the arm.

They said their goodbyes, John promising to keep them updated as best he could, and then he set off into the house. He could just make out Mrs. Hudson saying “You know what Sherlock is like… he’s just a bit worked up…” before he stepped inside.

He made his way to the back to Mrs. Hudson’s living room where, sure enough, Sherlock had already set up in one of her flowery armchairs with his laptop balanced in his lap.

“Hey,” said John.

Sherlock grunted.

“It’s not the delay that’s got you upset,” said John, after a moment of watching Sherlock furiously typing.

Sherlock didn’t look up. “Of course it is.”

John didn’t look convinced. “You don’t think it might have something to do with the fact that Moriarty caught us off guard? And attacked our home?”

“That’s subjective, overemotional, and stupid,” said Sherlock flatly. “The only thing worth being upset about is the constant insistence that everyone should stick their nose into my business and slow me down.”

“It’s all of our business. And it’s not like you have much to do that requires being in the flat anyway,” said John. “You said it yourself. You need to figure out what’s so important about the pottery. That means research, not a chemical analysis like you had to do for the shoes.”

“I don’t care,” said Sherlock venomously. “I’ve been exiled against my will.”

“I think calling Mrs. Hudson’s living room ‘exile’ is going a little far.”

“Why aren’t you more annoyed?” demanded Sherlock. “This should be just as much of an inconvenience for you as it is for me.”

John shrugged. “I don’t mind a change in scenery. All I do is sit in the flat anyway. I’m more worried about our safety than anything else. And frankly, unless you give me a way to help you, it doesn’t really matter to me where we’re working.”

“I don’t need help.”

John let out a long-suffering sigh. “Of course you don’t. The very notion has you in a horrible mood.”

“I’m in a so-called ‘horrible mood’ because my neck is killing me and I’ve been condemned to sit hunched in a chair in my landlady’s flat while a horde of morons take a full day to vacuum up a bit of glass,” said Sherlock, his voice positively dripping with loathing for everyone and everything.

John traipsed out of the room and up the stairs to their flat without another word. He stepped gingerly over the broken glass coating the floor and to the bathroom in his third-floor room, where he opened the medicine cabinet over the sink, rummaged for a moment, and pulled out a bottle of pain relievers. Stepping carefully, he descended the stairs, and rejoined Sherlock (who’d stopped looking furious long enough to look baffled at John’s abrupt exit) in Mrs. Hudson’s apartments.

He set the bottle of painkillers on the table next to Sherlock’s chair. “Take two of these for your neck. The glass and the associated horde of morons will be done as soon as possible. And you should be grateful to Mrs. Hudson for letting us stay here.”

On the arm of Sherlock’s chair, his phone buzzed. Sherlock ignored it.

John settled himself on a different chair, opening up his notebook with an air of finality. “Take two,” he ordered, pointing at the bottle of pills with a pen. “You’ll be less miserable when you’re in less pain.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” grumbled Sherlock. “I don’t need painkillers. Pain is physical. The body is just transport. It can be ignored with the proper focus.”

John shrugged, turning his eyes to his notebook. “Suit yourself.”

The room settled into silence. But after a moment, Sherlock unscrewed the bottle cap. Out of the corner of his eye, John watched Sherlock pop four paracetamols into his mouth, and though he raised his eyebrows, he didn’t say anything.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock and John spent the night in Mrs. Hudson’s living room, with John sleeping on the sofa and Sherlock curled up in a chair. When John woke the next morning, stretching stiffly and sitting up, he saw Sherlock had his knees drawn up to his chest and his laptop perched on top of them, a blanket (courtesy of Mrs. Hudson) draped over his shoulders, overall making him look like a puffed up and furious bird of prey glaring down at his laptop.

“Morning,” said John uncertainly, rolling his shoulders. “Did you sleep?”

“Some,” said Sherlock flatly, and that was all John needed to know that Sherlock’s mood hadn’t improved in the slightest.

The repair work on the upstairs flat had been completed in record time, with new panes of glass in the windows and the floors swept free of dust and debris. John went upstairs to check over everything with the last of the cleaners—who had apparently come in at the crack of dawn to finish their work—and thanked them profusely for their efforts. It was good that he did, as Sherlock’s interactions with them consistently solely of storming past them to the kitchen, where he started setting up a workspace on the counter.

Within minutes of the cleaners leaving, Sherlock’s phone started to buzz.

Initially, John didn’t take much notice. But when it kept buzzing, he started glancing up every time, counting each incoming message. All of them went unanswered.

Around noon, Lestrade knocked on the door.

“Just wanted to make sure everything was all right,” he said. “No more explosions.”

John laughed, and Sherlock ignored them.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

“Window’s look good,” said Lestrade, admiring them from the door. “You almost can’t tell a bomb went off yesterday.”

“The cleaners scuffed my violin case,” said Sherlock soullessly.

His phone buzzed.

“Oh.” Lestrade looked at John helplessly, but John shrugged and shook his head. They watched Sherlock pick up the little porcelain dish, run a finger along the rim, set it back down on the coffee table, and resume typing on his laptop.

“How’s it going? With the pottery?” asked Lestrade tentatively.

“Fine,” said Sherlock. “Just fine.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed again, and Sherlock snatched it up off the table and hurled it across the room without looking at it.

“You know what, I’m going to come back in a bit,” said Lestrade. He caught John’s eye and jerked his head in the direction of the door.

He and John stepped out and hurried away, stopping at the foot of the stairs.

“How’s Sexy _really_ doing?” asked Lestrade, keeping his voice low and looking sidelong at the door of the flat to make sure Sherlock wasn’t eavesdropping. “Because he doesn’t _seem_ fine.”

“In a towering temper, I think,” replied John, doing the same. “You know better than I do that he hates having too many people involved with his work.”

Lestrade nodded sagaciously. “I get that. Really, I do. But he can’t keep operating alone, not if Moriarty really is going to blow up buildings in residential neighborhoods just to get attention. This is bigger than the two of them, now. It probably always was bigger than that, but now the rest of us know that too.”

“I know.” John buried his hands in his pockets and offered a half-hearted shrug. “I’ll try to talk him around. You and Mycroft do what you need to do, and I’ll make sure Sherlock cooperates on this end.”

“I appreciate it,” said Lestrade, smiling. “Good luck.”

“I’ll— _we’ll_ keep you posted,” John assured him.

When John reentered the flat a moment later, Sherlock had moved to sit at the table in front of the new living room windows, his face illuminated from below by the light of his computer screen. He clicked a few times (rather aggressively) and glanced out the window at the sound of Lestrade’s car first starting and then driving away.

“Distracting,” he said.

“What is?”

Sherlock glared out the window at the police car trundling off down the road. “Him. Everything. All of them.”

“They’re just trying to help,” said John, as there was obviously no point delaying this conversation.

“I don’t _want_ their help!” said Sherlock loudly. “I don’t want help at all!”

John sighed. “Yeah, well, you don’t have a choice.”

“I _should_ have a choice,” mumbled Sherlock, sinking low in his chair with a dark expression on his face. “This isn’t about them.”

“What’s got you so scared about letting them help?” asked John, finally sitting down in the chair on the other side of the table.

“I’m not scared!” objected Sherlock, equal parts indignant and defensive. “Don’t foist your stupid emotional insight on me. I’m not scared. What a moronic concept.”

“Then what’s the problem?” John persisted. “I know you tend to do everything yourself, but you aren’t usually quite this hostile about it. Rude, yes. Single-minded, yes. Hostile, not so much.”

Sherlock fixed his eyes on a spot on the surface of the table. “I wouldn’t need to be hostile if everyone just listened to me and left me alone. This isn’t an ordinary case; this is _Moriarty_ we’re talking about.” When John didn’t speak, he continued, “Didn’t that explosion make it plain? Moriarty doesn’t care about destroying things—or destroying people—to get what he wants.”

“You’re scared he’s going to target anyone who tries to help you,” said John quietly.

“Not scared,” snapped Sherlock.

“Worried, then. Concerned. Aware and accordingly cautious,” amended John indifferently.

Sherlock fell silent, pursing his lips. He turned his gaze out of the newly-repaired windows, which enabled him to avoid looking at John.

“Listen. You’re allowed to feel unsettled,” said John, looking at Sherlock across the table with a surprisingly patient, and gentle, expression. “Like it or not, you’re human. You can’t be above emotions all the time. Moriarty got your attention by blowing up part of our street. And in doing so he made sure everyone we know would be involved. He brought all of this right to our doorstep. Anyone would be unsettled by that. And,” he continued, before Sherlock could interrupt, “maybe that was his plan.”

Sherlock—who had opened his mouth to retort—closed it for a moment, looking uncertain. He turned back to John slowly. “… Elaborate.”

“Well, really, anyone as clever as Moriarty would know perfectly well that if he arranged for an explosion across the street from our flat, people would notice. The police would notice, Mycroft would notice, everyone would. Even if he doesn’t know about your partnership with Lestrade, he likely knows you and Mycroft are related. He would know the police would be involved if there’s a bomber, and Mycroft would want to know what’s going on if there’s a chance you’re at risk. He made sure you wouldn’t be able to solve this in isolation. With the shoes, you shut yourself up in here for a couple days and no one bothered you. So maybe he’s intentionally depriving you of the ability to do that again. Forcing you to work in conjunction with other people.”

Sherlock looked doubtful, but not entirely unconvinced. “Seems a bit unlikely.”

“But not impossible. And you’re the one who likes to yammer about nothing being impossible. Either way, you’ve got to handle it better than this. No offense, mate, but you can’t throw a tantrum every time your phone buzzes.”

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, which John took as a grudging, and silent, agreement.

“You can work this to your advantage,” said John. “Instead of automatically assuming every involved person is just a liability, find a way to maximize your reach. _Let_ us help you, for a change.”

Sherlock sat poised for a fight, but then he relented. “As you’ve said, I don’t have much choice.”

“Not really, no,” said John. “So how about you tell me what you’ve figured out about this puzzle, and then we can figure out how to manage all of the people you need to keep informed.”

Sherlock mulled this over. After a pause, he said, “There’s… admittedly not much to go on.”

“Which might be contributing to your frustration,” suggested John.

“Maybe,” admitted Sherlock. He indicated the little porcelain dish perched on top of its protective black box. “I’m by no means an expert in ceramics, but from my research and a few emails to the Antiquities Museum here in London, I’m almost certain this is an original Ming dynasty era piece, from China. Xuande, maybe. The blue cobalt underglaze that makes up the decoration has very crisp lines. That was a characteristic innovation of that period, adding manganese to the cobalt glaze to stop the color from bleeding in the kiln. If the piece is genuine, and I have a feeling it must be, then it’s rather expensive. Incredibly expensive, in fact.”

John looked at the little dish. “Really? How much?”

“Anywhere from a few thousand to a few million pounds,” said Sherlock.

John stared. “You’re _joking_.”

“I’m really not.”

“Why the hell did Moriarty just give you a million-pound dish?”

“That’s the real question,” said Sherlock. “And I…”

Sherlock had a strange look on his face, and it dawned on John with a jolt that it was a kind of embarrassment. The Detective trailed off, and after a moment, John understood why. “You don’t know.”

Sherlock scowled. “No. I don’t.”

“Is it stolen?” suggested John.

“Probably,” said Sherlock. “But I have no way to trace it. The sad fact of the matter is, pieces like this are stolen from museum archives or private collections by smugglers all the time. They can find their way to foreign auction houses with false provenance details, if the smugglers are good. German auction houses are a popular destination for sellers. It would take an expert with nothing but time on their hands to trace just one artifact like this one, and I don’t have that kind of time.”

“Are there any experts in London?” asked John.

“One.” Sherlock brought up a webpage on his laptop and turned the screen for John to see. On it was a photograph of a middle-aged man, with short hair, small smile, and an intense gaze. His picture was alongside a blurb for a large antiques brokerage. “His name is Gruner. He’s a world authority in Chinese ceramics.”

“Did you talk to him about the dish from Moriarty?”

Sherlock shook his head, and said, “I prefer to get my information through museums rather than private art dealers. But he’s the foremost expert for a hundred miles in any direction. And the only lead I have.”

John frowned. “That doesn’t sound like much of a lead. The significance of the shoes from the last message was pretty apparent, since it was linked to a murder. This… not so much, even if the dish _is_ worth a few million pounds. Especially since Gruner doesn’t have the dish. We do. Maybe it belongs to him?”

“Mm. Possible.” Sherlock sighed. “Like you said, there’s no obvious crime to be solved, here. Unless the auction house Gruner works for is knowingly dealing in stolen goods, but… there’s no way I could prove that anytime soon. It could take weeks. I doubt Moriarty wants to wait around that long.”

They both fell silent, lost in thought for a moment, until finally John said, “Let’s see what we can do to dig up more information, then. You’ve got plenty of people who can speed up the process.”

Sherlock ventured, “This dish had to get into the building across the street somehow. Mycroft’s unlimited access to CCTV all over the city might be useful in determining when the explosion was set and by whom. He used that to find me after I was abducted by the Black Lotus—I don’t think it would be difficult to watch Baker Street for anything concerning.”

“That’s a start,” said John. “Not to mention Molly can help if there’s anything chemical, or you can go to Bart’s yourself if you feel like getting out. Lestrade will back you up, if you need to interview anyone.”

“True,” said Sherlock. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips. “And it might be prudent to put Gruner on my Homeless Network’s radar.”

“You think they might be able to find something?” asked John, who’d completely forgotten that Sherlock had contacts among London’s underground.

“It’d be a surprise if they didn’t,” said Sherlock. “Though sometimes a lack of information is as significant as a surplus of it.”

John got to his feet and walked over to where Sherlock’s phone had bounced off a wall and hit the floor. He picked it up. “Well then,” he said, tossing the phone to Sherlock, who caught it. “It sounds to me like you have a plan. One that involves letting actual people help you get things done.”

“Oh, shut up,” said Sherlock, smoothing a finger over the screen before starting to compose a text to Mycroft. “You’ve made your point.”

“Good,” said John emphatically, taking a seat in his usual armchair. He could already see some of the tension leaving Sherlock’s stance, and his tone was significantly less murderous than it had been. “You should listen to me more.”

It wasn’t too long before Sherlock’s phone buzzed, several times in quick succession, and John was pleased to see that this time Sherlock was reading the messages and not just throwing his phone across the room in annoyance.

“Our man Gruner might be of interest after all,” said Sherlock, scanning the texts with interest.

John—who was halfway through making a sandwich in the kitchen—joined Sherlock at the living room table. “Is that from Mycroft, or from your Network?”

“Both.”

“Well?” prompted John. “What’d they find out about him?”

“To start, Gruner’s wife died two years ago.”

“Oh,” said John, grimacing. “Christ. My condolences to him, then.”

“He most likely murdered her.”

“I take back those condolences.”

Sherlock snorted, and continued, “She fell off a cliff. Apparently Gruner and his late wife enjoyed hiking, but she died on a hike across the Italian portion of the Alps. Gruner was suspected of pushing her to her death, but it seems a legal technicality and the unfortunate death of the only witness—who was just another hiker that happened to be passing nearby—meant he was acquitted based on a lack of evidence.”

“That’s… horrifying,” said John.

“Mm,” hummed Sherlock. “And it’s not the only horrifying thing about him.”

John’s eyes widened. “There’s more?”

“Oh yes,” said Sherlock. “You’ll recall I told you he works for auction houses? Acquisition and provenance verification, that sort of thing.”

“Right.”

“Well, he also happens to be one of the wealthiest men in western Europe,” said Sherlock.

“… How much money are we talking about here?” asked John.

“Something on the order of an obscenely large fortune,” said Sherlock.

“But…” said John, looking confused. “Did he really make all of that money in antiques?”

“Not likely.”

“Then… from his late wife?”

“She was wealthy, yes. Which might explain why he would want her dead, but it’s not his only source of money.”

“Then where’s the rest of it from?”

 “If the information from my Homeless Network is correct, it would appear he’s made a fortune by threatening and extorting former girlfriends,” said Sherlock, the disgust in his voice quite apparent.

“ _What_?!” asked John, mortified. “How?”

“Two words,” said Sherlock. “Nude photos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> puzzle #1: gruesome murder  
> puzzle #2: nekkid people  
> nice, Jim  
> real nice
> 
> ~
> 
> Sorry for the late update, everyone - real life got in the way, through work and health and family stuff. That said, things are getting back on the right track and hopefully this will be the last interruption for a good long while. Fingers crossed, anyway!
> 
> And there's a new case! I wonder who this guy Gruner is... (Llama says, clearly doing so for dramatic effect)  
> brownie points to anyone who's already guessed what story from canon I'm playing with ;D if you haven't guessed already, you probably will next chapter.
> 
> I can never resist throwing in a little bit of a) Sherlock throwing tantrums and b) investigations not going Sherlock's way right off the bat and c) John being the one to get things _on_ track. You can't always work on your own...! John might be stuck lying low in the flat 99% of the time until this mess with Moriarty blows over, but his function as Sherlock's pseudo-emotions-coach is nonetheless critical. XD I always liked John's role in canon as Sherlock's support team in times of trouble.  
>  ("The Norwood Builder" adaptation in the Jeremy Brett Granada series was always one of my favorites for just that reason, with Watson bolstering Holmes' confidence when the investigation wavers)  
> but no, this case isn't the Norwood Builder  
> OR IS IT?!?!?  
> it isn't, i don't know what I'm on about
> 
> Anyway, like I said, updates should be back on track now! I shall return soon with more excitement, more adventure, and apparently more nude photos (?)  
> I am super grateful for any and all feedback - especially comments - as I venture off the beaten path with this case. :3 Thanks for sticking with me! You're the best ~


	30. A Strand of the Web

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly late update (I'm very sorry), but -- it's an insanely long update :D

John coughed. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” said Sherlock. “He’s blackmailing them with nude photos.”

“How,” said John, “can you _possibly_ know that?”

Sherlock smirked. “That’s what my Network is for. They might not have been able to find anything about Moriarty, or even the Black Lotus, but Gruner is hardly as secretive. The women he’s been blackmailing aren’t all going to keep quiet.”

“So we’re supposed to be interested in Gruner not because of his expertise in pottery, but because he’s a blackmailer?”

Sherlock clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “We’re interested in him for both reasons. But we’re going to bring him down for his blackmailing.”

“I’m lost,” conceded John. “Are you sure this is what you’re supposed to be solving?”

“I’m positive,” said Sherlock. “It fits. It all fits. I’m an idiot for not seeing it before.”

“Seeing what before?”

Sherlock grabbed John’s notebook and pen off the coffee table—eliciting an annoyed “Hey!” from John—and flipped to a blank page, where he started writing down names.

“Gruner,” he said, “is a Germanic name. Gruner himself is Austrian. He’s only been working in London for the last few years. The auction house he works for is an international corporation and he’s a world-renowned expert, so I didn’t think much of him as a person-of-interest initially. But it would be a rather shocking coincidence if Gruner, a dealer in Chinese antiquities, just so happened to move to London around the same time as the Black Lotus. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Sherlock had written ‘GRUNER’, ‘MORIARTY’, and ‘BLACK LOTUS’; he drew arrows between them, and continued, “Moriarty and Gruner partnered up, with Gruner falsifying the provenance certification for the antiques that Moriarty was helping the Black Lotus smuggle out of China,” said Sherlock. “In exchange, Gruner gets a cut of the profit. _And_ he gets Moriarty’s protection. And that enables Gruner to continue his little side-business of blackmailing his exes on the side. Gruner makes a fortune, and I imagine he was pleased to have access to all of the priceless antiques Moriarty was bringing in. I’m sure Moriarty helped build his private collection as a means of buying his loyalty. And Gruner will never admit it, but I’m sure he has Moriarty to thank for making sure the witness to his wife’s murder is dead. Perhaps that’s how they met.”

John rubbed his temples, looking at the diagram Sherlock had drawn. “Holy shit.”

“Mm.” Sherlock set down John’s pen with a triumphant look on his face. “Gruner makes a deal with Moriarty—if Moriarty can get him out of a murder conviction, he’ll offer Moriarty his services indefinitely and expand them from Germany to an international market. Which means Gruner isn’t one of Moriarty’s victims like Carl Powers, nor is he a client. He’s a partner.”

“So Moriarty just handed over one of his business partners to you, who’s probably helped him make _millions_ of pounds, because…”

“Because he’s expendable. He doesn’t need Gruner. Gruner’s simply one of many.” Sherlock shook his head slowly. “Just a toy. A pawn. A useful asset that’s now been cut loose.”

They sat in silence for a moment, taking it all in.

“Why cut him loose?” asked John finally, ever full of more questions. “Why does Moriarty want to get rid of him?”

“I’m not sure,” said Sherlock. “Maybe he crossed some kind of line. Or he’s too much of a risk. Too public. Too greedy. Too careless. Either way, Moriarty dislikes him as much as I do.” He made a face. “There are a lot of people suffering because they were unlucky enough to be involved with Gruner. I’m inclined to accept Moriarty’s invitation to put away a truly despicable individual.”

“Surely the smuggling-millions-in-Chinese-antiquities thing is enough to indict him,” said John.

“You’re forgetting I can’t use that,” Sherlock reminded him. “That requires being able to prove Moriarty’s existence, and the Black Lotus’ as well. But…” Sherlock picked up the pen again, scribbled ‘BLACKMAIL’ on the page, and circled it a few times, with a line connecting the word to Gruner. “We _can_ get him charged with this. Perhaps Gruner’s been overstepping his bounds and throwing Moriarty’s name around. Maybe Moriarty doesn’t like being kept out of a scheme. Either way, we can bring Gruner down for it.”

John crossed his arms. “That’s something. Not that I want to do what Moriarty wants, but we can’t just ignore the fact that Gruner’s making life hell for a lot of people.”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “So that’s what we do. We take Gruner down, and we’ll have solved the puzzle. And maybe he’ll have some poignant information to share with us down the road.”

“All right.” John sat up a little straighter. “So—how do we find the people Gruner’s been blackmailing?”

Sherlock smiled grimly. “Already done it. That’s how I know about the photographs. One of my informants found a woman who might be willing to provide me with a little more information on our insidious blackmailer.” He typed out a text. “I’ll see if she’d be willing to meet us here.”

“Isn’t that a bit risky?” said John. “For her? If this does have anything to do with Moriarty.”

Sherlock paused. “Maybe Lestrade can assist with protection.” When John gave an approving nod, Sherlock continued, and finally sent the text. 

 

~o~O~o~

 

By noon the next day, Sherlock was waiting for Lestrade to arrive with his informant and Gruner’s ex. He paced the living room, while John peered out the window to the street below, until at last John said, “That’s Greg’s car.”

“Greg?”

“Greg. Greg Lestrade. How many times do I have to remind you his name is Greg?”

“His name is Lestrade.”

“He—I give up.”

There was a knock downstairs, and a moment later a knock at their own door. Mrs. Hudson opened the door and stepped in, holding the door for the people behind her. Lestrade filed in, along with a woman John didn’t recognize, before she left.

Lestrade stood to the side. “Hi Sherlock. Mind if I stick around for this?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I may need your help again later, depending on what Miss Winters has to say.” He turned to the stranger with Lestrade, shaking the woman’s hand before gesturing to John for introductions.

To the stranger, he said, with a wave at John, “This is my – friend, John. He’s assisting with the investigation.” As John beamed and stepped forward to shake her hand, Sherlock continued, gesturing to the woman, “And this is Kitty Winters.”

Kitty shook John’s hand brusquely. She was about John’s height, with long wavy red hair that fell below her shoulders. She had a sharp, fierce look about her, and was staggeringly beautiful, though John thought that she looked strained on closer inspection, like she’d been on edge for a long time.

Kitty sat on the sofa, Lestrade and John fetching chairs from the table, and Sherlock stood before them, overseeing the proceedings. As soon as the required niceties were taken care of (offers of tea politely declined and seats taken), Sherlock started, his attention entirely on Kitty. “When did you meet Gruner?” he asked.

“Three years ago.”

“How did you meet?”

“An art gallery. I’d posed for a painting and I wanted to support the artist at the opening. He turned up and we hit it off. Unfortunately for me.”

“You were a model?”

“I _am_ a model. Just for small time things, and artists, generally. But it’s hard. And Gruner’s made it almost impossible for me.” Kitty looked at Sherlock curiously. “How did you find him, exactly?”

John wasn’t sure how much they should really tell about who’d put them onto Gruner, but it seemed Sherlock was way ahead of him, saying simply, “I found out about his wife, and it didn’t ring true. A bit of digging led me to you.”

Kitty’s mouth twisted, and she wrung her hands in her lap. “I heard about her,” she said. “He married her not that long after he and I – well, after we broke it off, so to speak. … I should have turned him in years ago. Maybe she wouldn’t be dead if I had. Maybe she wouldn’t have married him at all.”

“You have no way to know that,” said John gently.

Kitty smiled thinly, her expression bitter. “Too late now, anyway.”

“So he’s been blackmailing you for…?” asked Sherlock, pressing on.

“Money,” said Kitty bitterly. “Every spare cent I have, just about. For his bloody china collection.”

Sherlock nodded. “And he has photos of you for insurance.”

Kitty looked halfway to tears and infinitely angrier. “If you know about that, then you know why I’ve been stuck in this position. I’m an amateur; my career couldn’t survive something like that. And plenty of the other women he blackmails are married or have high-end jobs and something like this would ruin them, which is probably why they weren’t willing to come forward before an arrest was made and charges pressed.”

“That’s about to change,” said Lestrade firmly, and Kitty sat up a little straighter, once again looking more determined.

“I want to get the photos in the hands of the police,” said Sherlock. “But to do that, I need to know where the photos are and how they’re being kept.”

“He’ll never let you into the house,” protested Kitty.

“Trust me, he will,” said Sherlock, glancing at the box they’d found in the wrecked building across the street, and John thought he understood what Sherlock was planning. “But you don’t have to tell me if you’re concerned about being involved.”

Kitty crossed her arms haughtily. “I want in. I don’t care what I have to do.”

“Then anything you can tell me about where to find the photos will be a big help,” said Sherlock.

Kitty shifted, looking at everyone in turn—from Lestrade to John to Sherlock—and finally said, “It’s a digital camera. A small expensive one. With a black holder for SD cards. He has one for each former girlfriend. He keeps it locked in a drawer in his office desk.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’d know it if I saw it?” When Kitty nodded fervently, he went on, “Then I’ll get it from him. If that’s all I need to prove the blackmail, and I think it is…“ He glanced at Lestrade, who nodded “… then it won’t take long to bring him down.”

Kitty gaped, and Sherlock continued, “I’ll be in touch. Your information might be enough for me to bring Gruner to justice. I make no promises, of course, but I hope that the next time we speak, I’ll be able to let you know he’s been formally charged.”

“I want to come!” said Kitty heatedly. “If you’re really going to take him down, I want to be there to see it.”

“I’m not sure that’s—“ started John, but Kitty ignored him.

“He ruined my career,” she said. “He ruined my _life_. If he’s finally going to pay for it, I want to be a part of it.”

Sherlock hesitated, and finally said, “Let Inspector Lestrade get you home for now. But I’ll let you know when I decide to make my move to get his camera. I was planning on bringing some police backup and they may be all right with you watching the proceedings from a safe distance, if it matters that much to you.”

“It does,” said Kitty emphatically.

Lestrade looked a little uneasy, but he nodded again.

“Good,” said Sherlock. “Then I think we have enough to go on for the time being.”

Everyone got to their feet. John and Kitty shook hands, and then as John thanked Lestrade for his help, Kitty pulled Sherlock aside.

Kitty met his eyes, her gaze intense. “Listen, you don’t know him like I do. You don’t know how far he could go.”

“I’ll do my best to be prepared for whatever eventuality,” said Sherlock.

“He’s a lot crueler than anyone knows,” she insisted. “Even more than you think. And he’ll do anything to stay on top.”

Sherlock gave her a reassuring look. “I’ve handled worse. The nightmare’s almost over, I promise.”

She bit her lip.

“I’ll be in touch,” said Sherlock once more, guiding her in the direction of Lestrade and ushering them both to the door. “Don’t worry.”

Lestrade and Kitty left, and after a moment, Sherlock sat down and set his laptop in his lap. “Nearly there now. Moriarty will be pleased.”

John crossed his arms, leaning against the wall and watching Sherlock. “I think I know what you’re planning,” he said.

“Do you?” said Sherlock, glancing at him. “Go on, tell me what I’m going to do.”

“You’re planning on luring him with the dish Moriarty gave you,” said John.

Sherlock gave him an approving look. “Good deduction. Yes, exactly. I think he might have given it to me for just that reason. I can reach out to Gruner under the pretense of selling it and thereby gain access to his house. Then I just have to get the camera. Lestrade can help.”

“But you’re going to have to keep Gruner fooled long enough to find the camera without him getting suspicious of you.”

“Oh, he’s going to be suspicious no matter what I do,” said Sherlock. “I have a million-pound Ming dynasty piece in my possession that he doesn’t know about when the only way to get something like this is through him. He’s going to be wary. I just have to pretend long enough to either steal the camera or scare him into surrendering.”

John frowned. “I’m not loving the sound of this plan.”

“Just trust me,” said Sherlock, opening his laptop. “I’m already taking your advice about letting people assist me. I let Mycroft and my Network fill me in, I reached out to Kitty, I’m involving Lestrade.”

“True.”

“So let me do what _I_ do best and outsmart Gruner,” said Sherlock.

John sighed loudly. “Fine. So what now?”

“I contact Gruner about the dish,” said Sherlock. “And prepare while I wait to hear from him.”

John nodded, and as Sherlock turned back to his laptop and started typing up an email, he went to make tea.

Sherlock spent the next few hours with his eyes practically glued to his laptop screen, clicking from page to page, from image to image, from article to article, eyes flickering across the screen so fast that just looking at them move made John a little dizzy.

John fell asleep on the sofa, and was woken when Sherlock chucked a pillow at him. After a few utterances of “sod off”, he grumbled, “So what’s going on?”

“Heard back from Gruner,” said Sherlock, gesturing to his computer screen. “He’s taken the bait.”

“He agreed to meet?” asked John, sitting up and yawning.

“At his residence tomorrow afternoon,” said Sherlock, typing up a short acceptance and sending it. “Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Mm.” John yawned again. “You going to be ready?”

“Obviously,” said Sherlock.

“Brilliant,” said John. “Then I’m going to bed.”

The next day, Sherlock appeared in the living room dressed not in his usual long coat and scarf, but in a black blazer and matching trousers. The Ming dish had been packed away in a custom box he must have acquired when John had gone to bed.

John looked him up and down from his chair in the living room, where he’d been watching the news. “Trying to avoid being insanely obvious?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Gruner likely doesn’t know me. I’m not that well known beyond the police and staff at Bart’s. I doubt Moriarty’s warned Gruner about me, either.”

“I’m not questioning it,” said John, holding up his hands in surrender. “Just be careful. Are you heading out?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, gathering his things. “And I’ve texted Kitty, but I didn’t hear back,” he added, with a small frown. “She may or may not turn up for the hopeful arrest, but I’ve told her where to wait for Lestrade.”

“He’ll be nearby.”

Sherlock nodded. “Lestrade will take me partway, and I’ll walk the rest. I want to get there without Lestrade being anywhere in sight, but I want him and his idiots close by in case I need them. I know where to look for the camera, if Kitty was right about where he keeps it. He’ll be on guard, of course, but I’m hoping the Ming pottery will be something of a distraction. Especially since he may want to know how I got hold of a prize like this when he’s the one working with the Black Lotus.”

“I have no idea how this is supposed to work, but good luck,” said John. “I’ll be here when you get back. _Be careful_ , will you?”

Sherlock waved the cautions away with an airy wave of a hand as he left. “See you later.” He paused halfway out the door. “Oh. Can I borrow your gun?”

“No?” said John. “You’re not licensed to carry. And isn’t Lestrade going to be there? So you _don’t_ need to resort to measures like that if things go south?”

“Just thought I’d ask,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes, and he swept out the door. “I’ll be back!”

John heard the front door close behind Sherlock a moment later. He crossed to the new windows and looked out, watching Sherlock clamber into Lestrade’s car before it trundled off down the street, around the corner, and out of sight. He sighed, and stepped back from the window, looking out at the ruined building across the street for a moment, before he frowned.

He looked at the skull on the mantelpiece. “You don’t think…?”

Obviously, the skull couldn’t think, nor could it express any kind of thought whatsoever, but even the skull was probably thinking the same thing as John.

John climbed the stairs to his bedroom and opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. His gun was normally there, along with his papers and his few belongings.

But, of course, the gun wasn’t there now.

John let out a long, exasperated sigh. “ _Shite_.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

John had just phoned in an order for takeaway on Mrs. Hudson’s landline when Sherlock returned, walking in the front door just as John reached the top of the stairs. John paused and leaned over the rail to look down at him. “Hey!” he said. “How’d it go?”

Sherlock hastened up the stairs, John stepping into the flat and to the side a safe distance so Sherlock could come in. The Detective made a beeline for his usual chair and dropped into it with a sigh, John trailing behind.

“Come on, don’t keep me in suspense. How did it go?” asked John. “Did you get Gruner? Did he confess? Did you confiscate the photos?”

“Well…” said Sherlock, and it took John a moment to realize that his pause was because he was on the verge of laughing. “Yes; no but it doesn’t matter; and yes, eventually, thanks to Kitty.”

“Kitty?” asked John, blinking in surprise. “How did Kitty…?”

“Allow me to explain,” said Sherlock, settling back with a grin.

 

The facts were these:

 

Sherlock knocked on Gruner’s door at exactly three in the afternoon, at the precise time they’d arranged to meet. Tucked in a little box under his arm, carefully arranged, was the ceramic dish he’d been given by Moriarty, and nestled against the square of his back under his jacket was John’s handgun. His phone was stashed in his pocket. And, two blocks away, was Lestrade and a handful of officers in plain clothes and unmarked cars, just in case Sherlock needed them.

There was a long pause, and then the door opened to reveal Gruner. He looked even more severe in person, his haughty expression accenting and accentuating his short greying hair and slightly narrowed eyes. He looked down his nose at Sherlock.

“Come in,” he said, with a small smile and only a trace of his native accent, standing back to let Sherlock in. “You must be Dr. Barton.”

“And you must be Mr. Gruner,” said Sherlock, and once he was over the threshold, the two men shook hands briefly. “A pleasure.” Looking around, he noted that he house’s interior was just as grand as its exterior—all marbles and glass and expensive finishings with overpriced furniture occupying every room Sherlock could see. Gruner really must have made a fortune between his dealings with Moriarty and his dealings with past lovers.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” said Gruner. “Especially considering why you are here. I’m very eager to see…?”

Sherlock indicated the box he was carrying. “Of course. I did not think you would want to be kept in suspense. Time is money.”

Gruner gestured down a hall. “Why don’t we go through to my office? That’s where I keep my collection.”

Sherlock smiled politely. “Perfect. After you.”

Kitty had told him the camera would be in a (locked) desk drawer in Gruner’s (locked) office, but the task of gaining access to a few locked rooms and drawers wasn’t beyond Sherlock’s capabilities. No, it would just be a matter of distracting Gruner when the time was right. A knock at the door from police might do the trick… it would just take one well-timed text to instill a little distracting chaos.

Gruner unlocked the door to his office, revealing a room just as expensively decorated as the rest of the house and filled with dozens of glass cabinets housing numerous delicate ceramic dishes and vases and sculptures.

Sherlock and Gruner sat at the desk—Gruner behind it and Sherlock in a chair in front—and Sherlock set his box on the table and slid it gently towards Gruner.

“You’ll note the characteristic blue cobalt underglaze and the delicate lines on the lotus and hibiscus decorating the rim. Authentic Ming,” said Sherlock, as Gruner carefully opened the box and lifted out the little saucer. “Yongle, to be precise. And part of a complete set.”

Gruner held the dish up to eye level, examining it closely. “There’s a _set_?” he said, his sharp eyes on the dish. “Really?”

Sherlock nodded. “I did not want to bring the full set with me for this first meeting but, if you are indeed interested, perhaps you would be willing to visit me across town to see the rest. You can see it is genuine, and I’m happy to get an expert’s evaluation.”

“I am an expert,” said Gruner, engrossed with the dish. “And it’s flawless.”

Sherlock simply inclined his head in a nod and let Gruner continue to scrutinize the piece. In his pocket, he typed out “Come at once –SH” on his phone.

“Do you mind,” said Gruner, interrupting Sherlock before he could hit ‘send’, “if I ask how you got this?”

“Does it matter?” asked Sherlock casually.

“I’d say so,” said Gruner, and Sherlock could see his eyes narrowing again. Derision. That with the upturned chin and forward stance in his seat suggested confidence and some degree of superiority. “With pieces as valuable as this one, provenance is everything. Surely you know that, if you’re a collector.”

“Of course I know that,” said Sherlock, adding just a touch of indignation to his tone. “I can appreciate the value of a piece like this one, from this time period. It was – gifted to me, in a sense.”

“Ah,” said Gruner, looking again at the dish. “I’m only surprised that I had not heard of this piece in London until you contacted me. I am the foremost collector in the area, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. What do you think of the rest of my collection?”

“I think the Wei dynasty caparisoned horse sculpture on my left is particularly impressive,” said Sherlock, looking at it briefly. In his pocket, his finger hovered over the ‘send’ button. “The harness is in wonderful condition. I was admiring it the moment we walked in.”

Gruner set the Ming dish down and sat back in his chair, smiling. “You have a good eye.”

“Not as good as yours, I think,” said Sherlock, turning on the charm, but something in Gruner’s face made him send the summons to Lestrade.

Gruner laughed drily. “Yes, well,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to agree.”

Sherlock glared, hitching an outraged frown onto his face, as Gruner set down the dish.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but no piece like this would get into London through anyone other than me,” said Gruner, and Sherlock thought he looked almost manic all of a sudden. “Tell me how you got it. The truth.”

“I don’t know what you’re insinuating—“ started Sherlock, mind whirring (Lestrade only had to move one and a half blocks, so at most it would take him three minutes to get to Gruner’s front door).

“Tell me!” barked Gruner.

Sherlock threw caution to the winds. He couldn’t play this back-and-forth for three minutes, but perhaps he could intimidate Gruner for that long. The bulging vein in the man’s temple was evidence of a rising and tremendous temper. Gruner had shifted the Ming dish carefully to the side, as if moving it out of the way if he needed to make a move over the desk. So Sherlock stopped being cautious. “You’ve overstepped yourself,” he said coldly.

Gruner blinked. “What—“

“All those women you’ve threatened. Blackmailed. And killed, it seems,” said Sherlock. Gruner’s demeanor darkened. Sherlock went on, “Did you think no one would notice?” And then he said, “Did you think _he_ wouldn’t?”

Gruner paled.

“No one plays him and wins,” said Sherlock icily. “He’s made that clear to everyone who’s crossed his path. But it looks like you’ve forgotten. And now he’s done with you.”

Gruner suddenly dove into his desk and raised a handgun of his own just as Sherlock closed his hand around John’s at his back. They stood, each half-standing, facing one another over the desk, and each straightened.

“Back up,” snapped Gruner. “Hands over your head.”

Sherlock raised his hands to shoulder height and took a few steps back as Gruner rounded the desk. In spite of the gun pointed at him, Sherlock felt in control. Gruner was the one in over his head.

“You may have found it easy to get in here, but you’ll find it much harder to leave,” said Gruner in a low voice, though his face was still pale and now his hand was shaking.

“I wouldn’t do anything rash if I were you,” said Sherlock coolly. “He isn’t going to get you out of a murder charge this time.”

Gruner’s jaw clenched, and his arm jerked just as there was a crash from a hallway beyond the office door. Gruner whipped his head around to look at the door. “What was—?”

Sherlock leapt forward, one hand smashing Gruner’s elbow to one side while the other pressed Gruner’s gun hand back at the wrist, the conflicting directional force making Gruner drop the gun. It hit the floor, and Sherlock threw Gruner away from him towards the office door.

Gruner stumbled, livid, spitting, “I refuse to—“, but footsteps in the hall announced the arrival of company. Sherlock and Gruner both turned to the door, and Sherlock waited for Lestrade to materialize in the threshold. But it wasn’t Lestrade.

It was Kitty Winters.

She had obviously broken in through a window or back door, and now stood in the office doorway, pale with fear but _shaking_ with fury, as she and Gruner stared at one another.

Gruner broke the silence. “I will _ruin_ you for this,” he said.

“ _That_ ,” said Sherlock, “was the wrong thing to say.”

Kitty shrieked with rage and flew at Gruner, who had just enough time to turn around, thereby facilitating Kitty’s perfectly executed kick to his groin. Gruner dropped like a stone with a howl. Sherlock stepped forward and kicked Gruner’s gun across the room and out of reach where it slid under one of the many glass cabinets. Kitty, oblivious to anything but her tormenter, went in for another well-aimed kick, and Sherlock decided this was as good an opportunity as any to locate Gruner’s camera.

Thirty-three seconds with a lock pick at Gruner’s desk, and Sherlock was lifting a digital camera and a case full of several SD cards out of the bottom drawer and carefully stowing them in his coat pocket. He swept from the room and strode to the front door, throwing it open to see Lestrade hurrying up to the house, as instructed, with a handful of officers.

“Sherlock?” said Lestrade in bewilderment, but Sherlock simply pulled out the camera and case of SD cards and set them in Lestrade’s hands. “I thought there was a problem?”

“Not anymore,” said Sherlock. He held up the camera. “I think this should be sufficient evidence of Gruner’s taste for extorting former girlfriends. It will be enough to get you access to his bank statements. And the combination of photos and money trails ought to be enough to put him away for a very, very long time, which I’m sure will be a great comfort to the young women he’s plagued. And speaking of those young women, one of them has taken it upon herself to keep him from fleeing while you get in there to arrest him.”

“What?” said a dazed Lestrade, looking up at the house.

“Gruner might be starting to realize the error of his ways,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade blinked. “I don’t…?”

“Oh for God’s sake.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed at the door. “One of Gruner’s victims has broken in and is quite literally beating the _stuffing_ out of him.”

“I—oh. _Oh_ ,” said Lestrade.

Sherlock patted him on the shoulder. “I leave the rest to you, Inspector.”

Lestrade hurriedly stowed the camera and cards in his car before waving his officers towards the house. Within minutes, Gruner was bundled out the door, handcuffed and practically dragging the officers along in his wake in an effort to get away from Kitty. Sherlock stayed waiting on the sidewalk for a moment, then turned and walked to the next street over to flag a cab.

 

“So really it all worked out just fine in the end,” said Sherlock coolly.

There was a beat where he and John looked at one other, and then both men burst out laughing, and once they had started, it was hard to stop.

“I miss out on all the fun when I’m stuck in here,” said John, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and hiccupping himself back to solemnity a few minutes later. “I could have—I don’t know, pretended to be selling the pottery, and you could have snuck around while I distracted him. Then I could have been there to see Kitty destroy him.”

“Ha!” Sherlock sat back, still grinning. “Right. A nice thought, but Gruner is an unparalleled authority in Chinese pottery, especially of the Ming dynasty era. You could have studied for a solid twenty-four hours before meeting him, and it still might only have been sufficient for a few minutes of distraction. I confess that might have mattered if Kitty hadn’t been there to, ah, ‘help’, but there was no point in exposing you while Moriarty is on high alert for signs of what happened to your body. And Gruner proved even more dangerous than I’d expected. But I’m sorry to have deprived you of the excitement.”

“I forgive you, I suppose,” said John with a giggle. A little more seriously, he went on, “Kitty will be okay, right?”

“Kitty? I’m sure of it,” said Sherlock. “She might face a small fine for aggravated assault, but considering the circumstances, I think the sentence will probably be lenient.”

“Good,” said John. “No one should be punished for seizing the chance to kick a man like that in the dick.”

“I feel the same way,” said Sherlock. “I don’t know that her distraction was that well thought-out as far as plans go, but it worked to my advantage nonetheless. I think she was afraid I would underestimate him or be charmed by him like so many other people have been in the past. So she just wanted to… you know, make sure I got the opening I needed to find what I was looking for.”

John sighed. “I mean, as long as it means Gruner’s reign of terror is over and the camera is enough to get him a trial, I’m not complaining. I’m glad you’re safe, and I hope she’s not in too much trouble, but mostly I’m just glad this case is now over.”

“I’m inclined to agree.” Sherlock ruffled his hair. “And—two puzzles down.”

“Will there be more?” asked John, though he thought he knew the answer.

“Yes,” answered Sherlock predictably. “I think so. We did what Moriarty wanted. We figured out the truth about Gruner _and_ we brought him down without tying him publically to Moriarty. Barring some failure on my part that I don’t know about, Moriarty will continue to play.”

“You said before that he was trying to impress you, with Carl Powers’ murder,” said John. “So are the things we learned through this case supposed to do that too?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I think so.”

“Isn’t he risking a lot?” asked John. “In letting you learn this much about his criminal empire. I mean, we know more about how he’s making money, and how much, and how the Black Lotus is involved… That’s a lot of personal information, isn’t it?”

“How else would he make his point?”

“What point?”

“That he’s in control,” said Sherlock flatly. “That no one who plays him wins.”

John frowned deeply. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Think about it.” Sherlock started ticking off items on his fingers. “The first puzzle was intended to impress me with how long he’s had to build his empire, and how many years he’s gotten away with it all unnoticed. Unstopped. This second puzzle was intended to impress me with the extent of his empire. I realized it when I confronted Gruner. Gruner, the Black Lotus, his suppliers… this is only _one_ strand in a massive web and it extends over at least three countries and tens of millions of pounds. I already knew the Black Lotus existed, but now I know what their purpose was when they partnered with him, even if now they’re more like his spies than his smugglers. Moriarty is cutting Gruner loose and getting rid of him, so clearly he doesn’t need Gruner’s services, which means he doesn’t need to intend the Black Lotus as smugglers anymore. And casting Gruner aside so carelessly emphasizes that the money is no object to him at this point. What’s more, Moriarty doesn’t care about the people he works with. If the first case was about his skill, the second is about his power. I think the real question now is what the point of the next case will be.”

John took a deep breath, letting this fully sink in before he said, “I’m not really sure I want to know what the next one will be about.”

Sherlock smiled slightly. “Don’t tell me you’re getting scared.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, I know this might be hard for you to believe, but some of us don’t like being involved with psychopaths. I’ve already died once.”

“So you shouldn’t be intimidated by death.”

“So I’ve found I rather like being alive again and want to keep being alive for the time being.”

Sherlock blinked, unexpectedly pleased by the comment in spite of the sarcastic tone it was delivered in. “You still want to see this through, then?”

John looked surprised. “Of course I do. I’d be lying if I said any of this felt safe, but it’s… it feels important. I’m part of something a lot bigger than me, if only in a small way. Besides, Moriarty’s interested in _you_. My biggest problem is keeping you in one piece.”

“As long as he’s entertained, the status quo remains the same,” said Sherlock.

“How far do you think he’s willing to go?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. “He blew up a building, didn’t he? He’s conned. Betrayed. Killed.”

“Then just be careful,” said John. “I don’t want to have to rescue you from Moriarty’s personal kidnappers again.”

Sherlock stuck his tongue out at him, and John laughed.

“Thank you, by the way,” said Sherlock unexpectedly.

John did a double-take. “What for? I didn’t do anything.”

“You made me stop sulking,” said Sherlock. “And this case, it turns out, _needed_ to be solved in conjunction with other people. Mycroft and Lestrade and Kitty and the rest of them. And you. I might have been able to do it on my own, of course, but the process was greatly aided and expedited through cooperation. And I appreciate you forcing me to acknowledge that might be the case.”

“That is the weirdest thank-you I’ve ever gotten,” said John, smiling. “But I’ll take it. And you’re welcome.”

Sherlock nodded awkwardly, and turned his attention to his laptop, to type up a blog post for Moriarty (ACQUIRED. Camera containing evidence against antiques expert Gruner. 50+ charges for extortion/blackmail pending.).

“Also…” said John.

Sherlock looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. “Hm?”

John held out a hand pointedly. “Give me back my gun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock: how about i keep it  
> John: how about you don’t, you lanky git
> 
> ~
> 
> good god this chapter is long
> 
> Puzzle #2 in the bag!  
> I wonder what’s in store for our boys next…
> 
> I always really liked the Illustrious Client because Kitty’s just such a no-nonsense, revenge-seeking badass. I didn’t want to spend too long on each these puzzles for fear it would slow the story down too much, so she only gets a chapter… But that said, I loved writing her and giving her a chance to kick Gruner’s ass in my fic as well as in canon. No acid-to-the-face in this version, but it’ll do.  
> To me this story from canon just worked so well for what I wanted to do with Moriarty’s puzzles. Gruner’s history and interest in Chinese pottery worked so well with the role of the Black Lotus in Moriarty’s organization as smugglers.  
> Anyway, it was fun for me to write, and I hope it was fun for you to read! 
> 
> Again, sorry for the delayed update! I promise to make it up to you all :3  
> The next chapter may also be a little late if I'm traveling but I really hope it's on time  
> The next leg of the story really needs a good flow to it so I'm working hard for regular updates for the next several chapters - bear with me while I get my shit together XD <3
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading, and thank you for your feedback! It means a lot <3


	31. Your Undivided Attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're finally back!
> 
> AO3 was having some update issues recently, so if you missed the notification, the second puzzle was finished up last chapter.   
> Now for the continuation...

“Are you meeting Lestrade later to look for messages?”

“Of course. I was just about to text him to find out when.”

John looked up from Sherlock’s laptop, which he had borrowed and set up at the table in the living room so he could read the news. “You’re still sure there will be another one? It’s been four days since Gruner was arrested.”

Sherlock shrugged, sitting down across from John so they were on either side of the table. “Moriarty’s a busy man. There will be another case sooner or later. We don’t know what he’s got in mind for this one.”

“True. And the last one involved blowing up a building on short notice, so I suppose I ought to be more patient.” John sighed. “Did Mycroft find anything out from surveillance, by the way?”

“Nothing useful. Someone definitely broke into the place across the street the night before, but as we might have guessed, it was dark, any CCTV footage was of limited quality, and the bomber was strategically dressed to minimize distinguishing features. They looked male. Tall. Strongly built. Very stealthy. And if that’s all that Mycroft could figure out from the footage, that’s all anyone is going to figure out.”

“He’s like you, with the detailed deductions out of almost no information, then?” said John.

“Mycroft?” said Sherlock absently, sending a text to Lestrade before answering. “Oh, he might even be better than I am. But he’s so _unbearably_ lazy that it doesn’t matter. If it involves actual physical exertion, I’ve got the upper hand every time. If Mycroft can’t solve a problem through watching CCTV footage or arranging a teatime meeting to threaten someone, he won’t solve it.”

John snorted. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice.”

“Sure you are.” John turned Sherlock’s laptop around and slid it across the table towards Sherlock before withdrawing his hands. “Gruner’s been formally indicted, by the way. Nice article about it this morning. Fifty-six charges against him, and it looks like that coupled with Kitty’s actions have encouraged a bunch of women to come forward.”

Sherlock pulled the laptop towards himself and glanced at the article. “One less thing to worry about. Lestrade said I’d probably be called on to testify, but the trial won’t be for a couple months, so I can put it aside for the time being.”

John nodded. “Maybe by then all of this stuff with Moriarty will be over.”

“It might,” said Sherlock. “What a bizarre thought.”

“Kind of a nice thought, though.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is,” said John. “Look, I know you’ve been enjoying the intrigue with Moriarty, but the rest of us are more anxious than entertained.”

“There’s just something different about these cases. Something _new_. Something big,” said Sherlock, not sure how to explain. Moriarty was on another level compared to most of the other criminals Sherlock had encountered. Was it wrong to want to know more, to want to learn how Moriarty had gotten away with his wrongdoings for so long? What was it that made him different? Sherlock had confronted criminals who were intelligent before, or ruthless, or established, or rich, or well-connected, or feared. But Moriarty was all of those things in some new, personalized, revolutionized form. He took risks only a madman would take, in schemes only a genius would think of, and got away with it.

“You can say that again,” said John, his voice gently breaking through Sherlock’s thoughts. “The puzzles alone are pretty different from the typical miscreant, if you ask me.”

“Exceptionally different.”

“Any guesses for what the next one will be about?”

Sherlock shook his head. John had asked this before, and his answer was always the same. “No point in speculating. Then you just end up looking for things that might not even be there.”

“Fair enough,” said John. “Considering the transition from the first to the second was a transition from looking at some old shoes to investigating a bomb blast next door, I can see there might be an issue trying to guess.”

Sherlock snorted. “Yes, exactly.”

“Do you think he’s going to keep escalating things, though?” asked John. “I’m not sure how you escalate past blowing up a building, mind, but…”

“Speculating again,” Sherlock points out. “No point in guessing. And it’s hard to say, anyway. After all, blowing up a building is dramatic, but the shoes were direct evidence of a murder. The building led us to a blackmailer who is most likely _also_ a murderer.”

“Let’s hope ‘this is somehow connected to a murder’ isn’t the theme, then,” said John wearily.

“I leave the hopeless optimism to you,” said Sherlock. “I’ll stick to pessimistic, realistic fact, if it’s all the same.” His phone buzzed, and he picked it up off the table and read:

 

I think your next message was delivered to me???

Envelope addressed to you on my desk.

Meet me at the Yard ASAP. –GL

 

“It looks like Lestrade may have just found my next puzzle,” said Sherlock.

“Really?” asked John in surprise. “Where?”

“His office, along with the rest of his mail.” Sherlock held up his phone for John to see the text.

John scanned the message and whistled. “That’s a bit ballsy of Moriarty, isn’t it? Delivering a message for you to the Yard. Lestrade’s probably freaking out.”

“He used three question marks. He’s already surpassed freaking out and gone straight to fear-tantrums,” said Sherlock, typing a short “On my way. –SH” and sending it to Lestrade.

“Can you blame him? I mean, a Moriarty message at his place of work suggests Moriarty knows who you’re working with at the Yard,” said John. “Greg has a right to be concerned. Moriarty might not be trying to kill you just yet, but I’m not exactly inclined to trust he’ll be so nice to everyone.”

Sherlock scowled at the twinge of guilt this evoked somewhere around his left ventricle. “I _did_ tell all of you that being involved was dangerous.”

John held his hands in the air defensively. “I’m just the formerly dead guy who sits here and makes tea. I know that just because I _can_ go out doesn’t mean I _should_. Not until Moriarty is taken care of. So for now, I’m as inconspicuous as I can be, mostly because I think I’ve been allowed to go out further than the front door…” He counts on his fingers for a moment. “… what, maybe six times in the two months since you brought me back to life?”

“Seven times.”

“Whatever. Point is, Lestrade and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and the rest of them are out there every day. And with the explosion a week ago, everyone who’s involved with you came running to help us and make sure we were okay. Their identities aren’t a secret anymore, if they were a secret before.”

Sherlock groaned. “I know. Another reason why the Carl Powers case was the less problematic of the two.”

John shrugged, and said, “Just be careful, okay? If I get a call from Lestrade that you never showed up to his office, and I have to go rescue you, _again_ , I’m going to be really annoyed.”

“Well,” said Sherlock, finally getting to his feet to leave, “I’d hate to irritate you.”

“I’d hate to be irritated,” said John. “Now get out of here and go meet Lestrade.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but strode to the door to pull on his coat. “Sorry you can’t come.”

“It’s fine,” replied John, with only a little of the usual bitterness. “I’m used to it.”

“I’m sure Moriarty could blow up another building on our street, if it’d be any more interesting for _you_ —“

“Oh, fuck off,” said John, laughing and waving Sherlock away. “Be careful. See you later.”

“Later,” said Sherlock in farewell, and he swept out the door.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The cab ride to meet Lestrade was a reasonably quick one. It was enough time to receive a few more indignant texts from the inspector, but even so it was a little under half an hour before Sherlock was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Yard. He quickly walked inside, past the staff at the front desk who simply waved him along when he flashed his ID (they all knew him, and they all knew that if he was here it meant he’d been summoned by Lestrade), and to the lifts. Sherlock stepped inside, pushed the button for Lestrade’s floor, and he ascended to the tune of some horrifically bad, concentration-breaking elevator music.

Lestrade, interestingly, was waiting for Sherlock at the elevator doors. Sherlock stepped out of the lift and nearly collided with the policeman.

Sherlock frowned at him. “Are you really _that_ worried?” he said, in lieu of an actual greeting.

“You say that like it’s stupid to be worried when a criminal mastermind makes it very clear that he knows where you work.”

“You’re a police officer. Everyone knows where you work.”

Lestrade gave Sherlock a withering look as they walked to his office. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” conceded Sherlock. “If you’re concerned for your safety, or anyone else’s for that matter, I’m sure you could ask Mycroft for some additional security in your personal life.”

Lestrade shrugged, though his scowl relaxed a little. “I’m going to keep that in mind. But I guess we shouldn’t get too far ahead of ourselves just yet. You’re still the one in the most danger.” He led the way past a number of desks—Anderson sighed loudly and Donovan fixed Sherlock with a grimace as he passed—but Sherlock ignored them and filed after Lestrade into his office.

Lestrade shut the door and crossed to his desk, picking up an envelope. “If this is from who I think it’s from, Moriarty _really_ seems to be enjoying chatting with you,” he said, hesitating before holding the envelope out to Sherlock. “You know about as much as I do at this point, Sexy.”

Sherlock snatched the envelope out of Lestrade’s hand. “Is that going to be a thing now? I thought you were supposed to be the mature one.”

“I _am_ the mature one, Sexy,” said Lestrade. “But with these cases, I’m going to take whatever laughs I can get.”

“You need a hobby. Knitting, maybe.”

“Making sure you don’t get yourself killed or blown up is my hobby.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and turned his attention to the envelope. Sure enough, his name was on the front. Or rather, “GET SHERLOCK” was printed on the front, with a little smiley face. “You didn’t open it?” he said, turning it over a few times in hand.

“It’s addressed to you,” Lestrade insisted. “Considering we can all easily deduce who the sender is, you’d be justified in making an exception,” said Sherlock. He examined the paper. Same stationary as before. Bohemian. Same handwriting as well. He picked up a letter opener off Lestrade’s desk and carefully slit the envelope.

Inside was a piece of paper, and nothing else.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. No object to investigate for this case, then. He pulled out the paper and unfolded it. Written in the same small, characterless handwriting as the previous note were a few lines in the center of the page.

 

Let’s keep this between us.

You’re enjoying this. So am I.

We were MADE for each other.

You have my attention.

Now I want yours.

M xoxo

 

That wasn’t it. That couldn’t be it. There had to be more to it.

Sherlock flipped the paper over, but the reverse side was blank.

He read the note again.

It was incredible how twenty-five simple words triggered so much so quickly in his mind, the sense of foreboding welling up before he’d even determined why. His heart seemed to be skipping several consecutive beats. His mind was doing something similar, flying from thought to thought like a stone skipping on water.

It was all too easy to read into this message. To overthink, and infer wrongly, and jump to conclusions. He needed to slow down. Gather data. There was no point panicking. Panic never solved anything. Cool, calm data collection did.

Or at least, this seemed like a good lie to tell himself until he was alone.

Lestrade had looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to read the note. “What’s that about?” he said. “Sounds like a date invite more than a puzzle. Any ideas?”

_Let’s keep this between us._

“No,” Sherlock lied automatically, voice impossibly nonchalant, absently studying the paper again, turning it over and over in hand even though the message was imprinted on the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked. “No ideas. Not yet. But I’ll figure it out. I’ve only been on the case for less than a minute.”

Lestrade gave him a small but reassuring smile. “It’s not a lot to go on compared to the last two, but you solved those in a couple days each. I’m sure this message will be the same. I’ll keep an eye out for anything else out of the ordinary. Do you think we should go looking around again later? I bet there’s more to this than a creepy note.”

“Quite possible,” came Sherlock’s voice, though he had no idea how it was working so normally without him when his mind was racing far away and far ahead. “A note isn’t much to go on. No concrete evidence of wrongdoing in six simple sentences. There’s more to look at. We should go searching—tomorrow, I think. I ought to mull this one over a bit first. Perhaps there’s a hidden clue in the wording.”

Lestrade nodded. “Sure. Though I don’t know what kind of clue there’d be.” He sighed wearily. “And listen—about that extra security from Mycroft that you mentioned earlier… maybe think about it, for yourself? I know you like working alone, but being in the dark with this Moriarty stuff makes me uneasy. Baker Street is good, but it wouldn’t hurt to be more secure.”

Sherlock pocketed Moriarty’s note. “I’ll think about it.”

“Really?” Lestrade paused uncertainly, but he looked reassured all the same, and after a moment he smiled a bit. “Well, good. I bet John agrees with me. Anyway, keep me posted if you figure anything out tonight, and otherwise I’ll text you in the morning about looking around. Do you want a lift home?”

“No, no, thanks,” said Sherlock firmly, in a tone of forced calm. “I want to run a few errands if I’m going to be hunkered down with a case again.”

“If you’re sure.” Lestrade crossed to his office door and held it open for Sherlock. “Seriously, let me know if you have any leads, all right? Mycroft and I both want to be in the loop.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sherlock, stepping out. “When I have information to pass along, I’ll pass it along. Until then, do me a favor and try not to worry.”

“No promises,” said Lestrade, but nonetheless he seemed a lot calmer now than he had when Sherlock had first arrived.

Good for him. Sherlock felt exactly the opposite.

Lestrade waved him off. “I’ll be in touch.”

Sherlock nodded and swept away. He made a beeline for the stairs the second he could hear the door of Lestrade’s office shut behind him, past every desk and office until he reached the quiet, empty stairwell.

_You have my attention._

_Now I want yours._

Moriarty already had it. Moriarty and his puzzles and his empire had been more or less the sole focus of Sherlock’s concentration for days—for _weeks_ —already. There was a purpose to everything Moriarty did. Everything was intended to send a message, or to make sure he got what he wanted. So every line in the message was calculated.

Moriarty had sent the first puzzle to share something personal with Sherlock about his history. The first puzzle, Carl Powers, was about his history, and a connection he and Sherlock had never known they shared—their introduction to the world of crime. The second puzzle had been a statement about his empire. Moriarty had killed Shan in order to take full control of the Black Lotus Tong, an organization of smugglers he had used, in partnership with Gruner, to make millions. And that was only one of his criminal ventures. Moriarty liked control—over his empire, over his connections, over the flow of information. That was the point of the puzzles. To engage but still control the flow of information.

If Moriarty said to keep this puzzle between the two of them, Sherlock would do it. And if Moriarty said he wanted Sherlock’s attention, he had it. He’d had it all along. Obviously.

The aim was clearly to intimidate. So what could he do that he hadn’t already done? What could he do to get Sherlock’s attention that was more personal, more immediately threatening, than setting off a bomb across the street from his home? How much closer could he get? How—

Oh.

_Oh._

… _Shit_.

Sherlock wrenched his thoughts out of his head and back to the real world, and frantically waved down a cab. As soon as one rolled up to the curb, he opened the door and barked his address at the driver. By the time the car had started moving, he was lost in his own thoughts again, running through scenarios and overanalyzing every word of the note from Moriarty jammed in his coat pocket.

There was no point in panicking, there was no point in panicking—but there was no point in telling himself not to panic either. It was out of his hands now. And if he was correct, like he so often was, then he had good reason to panic.

For once, it would be fine to have made a deductive mistake. He could live with being wrong.

But it fit.

The first puzzle was to show how long he had gone unnoticed.

The second puzzle was to reveal how wide his network reached.

The third…

This back-and-forth with Moriarty could go on forever. Hadn’t Sherlock said it himself only a few days before? The game could potentially keep going, a constant exchange, until Moriarty made a mistake and shared too much. But Moriarty wasn’t the only person playing, and he wasn’t the only person who could share too much.

Sherlock raked his hands through his hair frustratedly, watching the view out the window in a detached kind of way. At last, the cab turned onto Baker Street, and Sherlock craned his neck, peering at 221B.

Mrs. Hudson was standing outside. Ridiculous, wonderful Mrs. Hudson was standing at the door of Speedy’s—the café next door—looking happy. Calm. Oblivious.

And completely fine.

Maybe he _had_ been wrong.

“Stop here, just stop here,” Sherlock told the cabbie. The car slowed, pulling over, and Sherlock threw a handful of miscellaneous bank notes in the driver’s direction and flung himself out of the car without bothering to wait for change. He shut the door and hurried towards his landlady. “Mrs. Hudson!”

She jumped in shock, turning about to face him. “Sherlock!” she said in a dither, as he drew to a halt in front of her. “I was just visiting Mr. Chatterjee next door. What’s the matter, dear? You look pale…”

The panic wrapped in cold iron bands around Sherlock’s ribcage eased, but only a little. “How long have you been out?”

“Since just after you left. Why?”

“No one’s been by?”

“Not that I know of, but like I said, I wasn’t in. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. We can talk later,” said Sherlock in a rush, and he hurried to the front door, pulling out his keys as he went and pressing a hand against the front door to steady himself.

It swung inward at his touch, already open.

Sherlock pulled his hand back from the open door, struggling to bottle up the wave of dread washing over him.

He stepped inside, leaving a perplexed Mrs. Hudson behind, and crossed slowly to the stairs, listening. There was no noise from upstairs, good or bad. He hesitated a moment longer, almost hoping he _would_ hear something, but when the silence stretched on he climbed the stairs one by one until he reached the door of the flat. Sherlock pushed the door open, and stepped over the threshold.

The flat looked just like it always did. And it was silent.

“… John?” called Sherlock, stepping into the living room and looking around.

Nothing.

This was not happening. This _was not_ happening.

“John?” said Sherlock again, at first prowling slowly between the kitchen and the living room, until he found nothing meaningful or informative in room after room, and his pace quickened. He scanned everything from top to bottom in a rush.

Sherlock hastened up the stairs to John’s room, and froze in the threshold.

John had a habit of keeping his personal space and possessions in order. He wasn’t obsessive about tidiness—sharing a flat with Sherlock made that unequivocally unrealistic—but every time Sherlock had ventured up to John’s room to talk to him or chuck something at his head, John’s room was neatly organized. Sherlock had assumed this habit had carried over from John’s time in the army. Minimalist, meaningful belongings and décor. Bed made. Important items properly stored but easily available. All very pragmatic and understated. Rather like John.

But now—

Something had gone very, very wrong.

The lamp was knocked off the now-askew bedside table. The covers had been partly tugged off the bed and left on the floor. When Sherlock regained the cognitive control needed to move his limbs, he moved forward to open the drawer of the bedside table, revealing John’s gun lying untouched on top of the fake IDs and documents Mycroft had made.

The room had been trashed but not searched, and there had been no attempt to obfuscate the intruders’ purpose. All signs of the obvious struggle were left in a deliberate, clear message.

_You have my attention._

_Now I want yours._

Everything Moriarty did was for a reason. Every move was calculated for purpose and effect, and every case, every puzzle, was meant to prove a point. Moriarty wanted control, and Moriarty always made sure to get what he wanted.

The first case was to show how long he had gone unnoticed. The second case was to reveal how wide his network reached.

Sherlock could scream, he felt so stupid. But if he was honest, he’d known from the second he read Moriarty’s message—and he should have known before, he should have _known_ —

The third case was to prove how far he was willing to go.

This was the answer. John was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **throws everything**
> 
> ~
> 
> The beginning of this chapter is supposed to be the pseudo-quiet before the storm.  
> Aaaaaand now everything can go to hell in a hand basket 
> 
> I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up. I have my reasons (mostly boring ones like health and life/work getting in the way), but it was also partly motivated by getting the next few chapters together all at once.  
> I won’t give too many details because spoilers, haha, but just understand that I want the next few chapters to go up in quick succession and I’m hoping you’ll agree with my decision to make sure there’s no delay between the next several chapters  
> this is kind of a big moment for me, story-wise  
> I’ve been waiting more than two years to write this part and dsjhbsdhsbhjsgd it has to be perfect  
> trust me, okay  
> just trust me  
> and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter
> 
> However -- surprise! -- at LEAST chapters 33 and 34 will be WEEKLY instead of the usual biweekly! Maybe chapter 32 as well if people really want it ;D we shall see
> 
> Like I said, I'm really really really excited about this next arc of the story, so I hope you all enjoy it. I'd love your feedback, as your comments mean a lot to me -- most of all, thanks for reading! <3


	32. Red Lights Dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to the brilliant RoseAngel for being my beta :D

  _Message received._

_The pool. Midnight._

 

Sherlock had been staring at these five words typed on his laptop for the last twenty minutes, his finger hovering over the return key on his keyboard, poised to upload.

He didn’t have any other options. His blog was his only known line of communication with Moriarty, and so the new post was written out almost as soon as he had finished searching the flat for any clue of where John had been taken, without success. But still he hesitated, the LED glow of his computer screen burning letters into his retinas.

His laptop flashed a message that it would switch to sleep mode in sixty seconds if he did nothing.

Why did everything have to take sixty seconds?

 _A minute is a long time_ , said a voice in his head, playing back something he’d said to John weeks earlier, but in a voice that sounded more like John’s than his own. _A lot can happen in a minute. The longer a person is around, the more likely it is that something horrible can happen—not that this is any fault of theirs. Or maybe it is._

He’d been treating this like a game without appreciating the real stakes. He was an idiot, for not assuming from the first that this is how his interactions with Moriarty would progress.

There was no way of knowing how much Moriarty knew. Or how he would rationalize the existence of a supposedly dead soldier in Sherlock’s place of residence. Especially when he had almost certainly tried to steal the same soldier’s body from a morgue two months earlier. When Mycroft had discovered John was living in Sherlock’s flat, the elder Holmes had believed John was a liar and a blackmailer. Moriarty might believe he’s a threat in a different sense. Because if he thought John had never died, then Moriarty’s entire empire could be compromised.

Sherlock had been careless. Unforgivably careless. And now John could be anywhere, in any condition. He was at risk. And so was Sherlock.

He should have been doing something to protect John from the beginning.

How many times had John protected Sherlock in the last two months?

Sherlock squared his jaw, and then touched the mousepad to revive his laptop, before he hammered the return key.

A pause, a loading screen, and then his blog refreshed. His message was posted. Moriarty would see it.

He glanced at the clock on the screen. Midnight was still some hours away, but it still wasn’t much time.

Sherlock slammed his laptop shut.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The first thing John registered was that it was more difficult to breathe than it should have been.

The second thing was the overwhelming, nauseating smell of chlorine.

The third thing, once he’d forced his eyes open, was that he was alone.

These thoughts came slowly—painfully, and slowly—as they crawled their way past the headache pounding against his skull. John pressed one hand against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and willing his brain to work past the migraine. Between the heady smell and the weight against his chest and the humid warmth of the room and the general pain he was in, he could barely string his thoughts together into anything coherent.

And then when he did—

... He had no idea where he was.

“Shit,” said John, sitting bolt upright with a lurch, and looking left and right.

He was sitting with his back against the tiled wall of a locker room. The room was completely unfamiliar, but even so it only took a few seconds to take stock of his surroundings. To his left were a few rows of small metal lockers, empty and padlocked, with benches set into the floor. To his right stood a number of cubicle showers. Beyond the showers, visible through translucent panes set into a set of double doors, was pale blue light playing on the glass. Water. That and the chlorine meant they had to be at some kind of swimming pool.

He had no idea why he would be at a swimming pool.

John got to his feet slowly, unexpectedly unsteady. His arms and legs were stiff and felt abnormally heavy and unresponsive. He was wearing a thick, hooded coat, zipped all the way to his neck.

Every passing second was bringing more confusion instead of more answers, and the headache pounding away at his brain wasn’t helping. John ran his hands over his eyes, taking a deep, measured breath.

 _Think_. _How the_ fuck _did he get here. Think_.

 

The facts were these:

 

Baker Street had been quiet. John almost missed the excitement of having a bomb go off.

 _Almost_. Not quite, but almost.

Once Sherlock left to meet Lestrade, John busied himself by puttering around the flat, as he usually did. He made tea (as usual), tidied his room (as usual), checked the neatly-arranged stack of papers and IDs Mycroft had made for him (as usual), made more tea (as usual), and finally gave up on finding something new to do before settling in to write. He picked up his notebook—which he wrote in almost daily, if only for something to do while Sherlock had puzzles to solve without John’s help—and sat back in his usual armchair. He scribbled down some halfhearted notes about the results of the last puzzle, with a handful of choice words about Gruner, but before long he was gazing absentmindedly out of the new windows at the street beyond the glass.

After a while, he heard the distant opening and closing of the front door below, and Mrs. Hudson’s cheery voice from the sidewalk. She’d be gone all afternoon, most likely, visiting the flirtatious (and/or adulterous) Chatterjee next door at Speedy’s.

John sighed, and his mind wandered.

Listlessness settled in very quickly whenever he had the flat to himself; and although he wasn’t going to complain about it—after all, the need to lie low was perfectly apparent—he was, admittedly, running out of things to do in 221B. Before he’d been brought back to life, he’d felt busy every second of the day, with new demands and tasks and risks. Now, the danger might not have dissipated, but the urgency had. And ultimately he felt, more often than not, like he was waiting for the metaphorical other shoe to drop.

Except he didn’t know _if_ the universe was going to drop a shoe and, if so, whether that dropped shoe would have the impact of a foam flip-flop or a steel-toed work boot.

Gazing out the window, thinking about nothing in particular, he got his answer some two minutes and forty-three seconds later.

John’s thoughts were interrupted by a brisk knock on the door to the flat.

He paused, looking up in surprise.

Sherlock was with Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson, maybe?

But no. She was probably still out, and besides that, Mrs. Hudson didn’t knock. She would bustle in to chat and have a cup of tea and fuss about the kitchen (“You really ought to clear some of this equipment off the kitchen table—I’m not your housekeeper, so I’m not going to do it, but I don’t think it’s very sanitary for Sherlock to do his little experiments where food is prepared…”), and she almost never knocked.

There was a second knock.

John silently got to his feet and set his notebook down on his chair in one careful movement. He stepped around the chair, but made no move to open the door. If he was quiet, they would go away.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the door knob trembled and, slowly, began to turn.

He didn’t know why, but he knew in less than a second that he needed to not be there with no means of self-defense, and he didn’t question it.

John turned on his heel and bolted for the stairs leading up to his bedroom, abandoning silence in exchange for speed. He skirted furniture and was on the steps before he heard the door behind him open, and hurried footsteps echoed his.

They’d been watching the flat. He and Sherlock knew—on some subconscious level, at the very least—that Moriarty knew where they lived, and could watch their every movement. He had proven that was the case ever since he’d sent the Black Lotus to paint symbols on their door. They had known that their home was marked. It was for that very reason that John had been confined to the flat for what had felt like weeks on end. Sherlock and John had seen Moriarty’s warning, and they had used it to shape their plans on how to keep John hidden from the world beyond the door of 221B.

But it was now obvious, horrifyingly obvious, that they hadn’t made a plan for if the world came through the door.

John didn’t have a plan.

All he had was an instinct that told him that he’d feel a hell of a lot better about his chances with Moriarty’s people if he had a gun.

He knew exactly where his gun was—loaded, in the cabinet beside the bed—and he made a beeline for it the moment he reached the top of the stairs, but something large slammed into him and bowled him over.

John smacked into the cabinet as he went down, the bedside lamp wobbling and toppling over as the nightstand shuddered with the impact. In a flurry of movement, John rolled over to push himself upright, but the body that had knocked him to the ground a few seconds before shifted as well to seize his shoulders and drag him back.

Close combat was not necessarily one of John’s strengths. He was not exceptionally agile, or tall, or muscled, and the training he did have was not in hand-to-hand fighting against someone who (judging from the grip on his shoulders and the arm hooked around his neck) had experience in some form of martial arts. What he did have was a militaristic determination and a rugby player’s willingness to get hit.

John jerked his head back in a sharp snapping motion, and the back of his skull met with something solid. The grip around his neck immediately lessened, and John seized the opportunity to throw his elbow back, hard, into his attacker’s diaphragm. There was a grunt of pain, before their grip fell away entirely. John pulled free and half-rose in a crouch, spinning about.

The sight of the person who’d knocked him to the floor—a man, now thoroughly winded and bleeding profusely from his nose—didn’t give John the reassurance he had hoped for, as two other men had followed the first up the stairs, and now stepped forward to replace him.

The gun in the drawer of the bedside cabinet, though only just out of reach, felt very far away.

John braced himself. “Come on, then.”

He and the two remaining intruders stared one another down, for just a beat, before all three went down in a tangle of kicks and limbs.

A few punches, a brief struggle, and it was over. In what could have been a few minutes or a few seconds, John’s bad arm was twisted painfully up in the square of his back, the grip so tight that John felt like he’d rip his arm off if he tried to tug it free.

In the same split second as a gloved hand was clamped over his mouth, John saw that there was a lotus tattoo on the man’s exposed wrist.

“Shit,” said John against the hand muffling his voice, as something bit the skin on the side of his neck. He struggled more furiously—or, he thought he did, except his arms were suddenly weighed down with lead and his head was ringing.

Needles. Lucky Cat. Black Lotus. The same thing had happened to Sherlock when he was abducted, John remembered that much.

It was the only thing he could remember.

He couldn’t remember anything.

He didn’t know anything.

John swore again, before the chemical now racing through his bloodstream dragged him under.

 

In the locker room, John gave himself a few minutes to get himself together. His headache was a distraction, but one that would fade. Thinking, as difficult as it was, helped. John reached up to touch his neck, feeling the skin where he could remember a needle pinching the skin sometime before. How long had he been unconscious? The locker room lights were mostly off, and the glass panes in the poolside door suggested an equally dim room beyond. But then, that didn’t necessarily mean it was late; it just meant that there was no one anywhere near him who might hear if he made a racket.

When he felt in-control enough to walk without falling over, John crossed the locker room and made his way down the rows of cubbyholes until he found the exit. He seized the handle, and tugged.

Locked. Of course.

He took a deep breath, and stepped back. With an air of forced calm, he went back the way he’d come and tested the lock on every single locker, but they were all empty or locked. Hurrying now, he walked back to the showers and down to the set of double doors leading to the pool. He tugged on the handle.

Again, locked.

He was trapped in a locker room somewhere, with no way to call for help, having been carefully drugged and abducted from 221B, and Moriarty—the person responsible for his death two months ago—was the reason why.

He regretted ever half-wishing something would happen at the flat. He regretted being bored. He regretted missing anything other than peaceful calm.

“Right,” said John aloud, trying to keep panic at bay. “Right.”

He kicked the door. Then he shoved at it. Then he pushed against it, hard, leaning into it with his right shoulder. But between his tired arms and legs, still heavy from the drug that had been used to knock him out, and the stifling, bulky coat he was wearing, he barely managed to shake the door in its frame.

“Okay, _fuck_ this sodding coat,” he said, channeling his panic into anger at the coat, and he fumbled for the zipper. John tugged in down sharply until the zip was just about level with his heart, and then he froze.

There was…

John pulled the zipper down further, but now slowly, by millimeters, eyes fixed on the odd little packages that had were visibly strapped to his chest and to the inside of the jacket.

It…

Oh shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, _shit_.

John was an army doctor. Just a doctor. But he knew what semtex looked like. 

Getting out of the locker room was no longer his first priority.

Getting out of the coat was.

John took a deep breath and pulled the zipper a little further, suddenly making his every movement cautiously and deliberately.

“Now, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said a voice in his ear.

“ _Christ_ —“ John jumped, his heart leaping into his throat, his hand flinching away from the zipper at the voice, so close that it sounded as if it was inside his head.

“Oh, dear, did I scare you? Did—hang on, maybe the mic is on too loud. Maybe – maybe I should…” The voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe I should talk like this. Is that better?”

John reached his hand up to his right ear. Hard plastic met his fingertips. He was wearing an earpiece, then.

And being watched.

He could hear giggling in his earpiece.

“You must be…” started John, not sure if he would be heard.

But the voice interrupted, speaking at full volume once again. “Oh yes, it’s me. The one and only. Speaking to you live from an undisclosed location.”

John nodded jerkily, letting a numb dread replace his panic and his headache and his confusion.

He was strapped to a bomb, talking to Moriarty.

And he was probably going to die any second.

“I’m going to be honest, I have been _dying_ to meet you. _Dying_.”

John took a deep breath—or at least as deep a breath as possible against the weight of explosives pressing on his ribcage—and shut his eyes. He leaned against the wall.

Somehow, listening to Moriarty talk merrily in his ear as if he didn’t have a care in the world was more terrifying than he ever would have imagined.

“Or, not dying. In your case, apparently.”

John said nothing.

“I must say, I was surprised when you vanished from the morgue at Bart’s. And even more surprised when you waltzed into the Lucky Cat a few weeks later. Your expiration date had long since passed. Not to be rude, but you were supposed to be dead. And the people I want dead don’t usually stay alive.”

John couldn’t help but think of the murdered informant he’d been trying to save in the last seconds before he’d died. And Shan, shot dead in the middle of a demolished building. And Carl Powers, poisoned and drowned.

John believed him.

“But,” said Moriarty, his voice level but burning with a kind of lofty excitement, “I’ll be honest, I’ve never been so happy to see someone alive when they should have been dead. I hadn’t been so happy in ages. You can’t imagine how deliciously rare that is. You’re more interesting than you know. Or at least, Sherlock is. I can’t wait to hear how he managed to hide you away as well as he did.”

John was afraid to say anything. It was, in a way, like dealing with Mycroft all over again. Except that as bad as revealing Sherlock’s secret would have been then, this would be a thousand times worse. Moriarty had no way to know how John had really come to be living at Baker Street. And John wasn’t going to tell him. If he was going to die, the only thing he could do now was make sure he didn’t give Moriarty any information on Sherlock that he didn’t already have.

John thought his legs might give out and he’d just slide to the floor. Adrenaline was making him feel sick.

“You’re not very chatty, are you? Hm. Hopefully Sherlock’s more of a conversationalist when he gets here. Should be soon. He chose the time and place, after all.”

Of course he did. Of course he did, because Sherlock Holmes was an idiot. A genius, a lunatic, and an absolute _idiot_.

“I just want to make your situation very clear before you try to do anything foolish. You’ve probably noticed the very stylish bomb you’re wearing…” said Moriarty, and John couldn’t help but look down at it again. “It’s real. I’m sure you’ve seen people get blown up before, in your line of work. And you saw how efficient these materials were on the building across the street from Sherlock’s lovely abode. So here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to go where I tell you to go, or I blow you up. You’re going to say what I tell you to say, or I blow you up. You’re going to do what I tell you to do, or I blow you up. Along with anyone within fifty yards of your position. Do you understand?”

John swallowed.

“I’m going to need verbal confirmation.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now sit tight.”

“… Why?”

“Do you only know one-syllable words? Don’t you worry—we’ll see each other soon. All in good time. You’re only the bait, after all.”

“Bait?” repeated John, with just a hint of indignation making its way past the fear doing its best to choke him.

There was no reply.

“Hello?” said John, looking pointlessly around the locker room, but his earpiece had gone silent.

John pushed at the poolside door again, but it didn’t move. The silence stretched on, and after several minutes of quiet, John leaned against the wall once more, and he waited.

He had no idea how long he stood mutely in the dark, trying not to think too much about the bomb on his chest, or about how he had no way to tell _anyone_ about where or how he was, or about what Moriarty might suspect regarding how John had managed to survive being ‘fatally’ shot, or about how helpless he felt.

But then, at last, Moriarty spoke again.

“Showtime.”

John jumped at the abrupt voice, even though he’d been waiting for it and expecting it for a small eternity. He straightened, adrenaline picking up where it had left off and soaring to new heights. He glanced anxiously at the door.

He could hear voices on the other side of the door to the pool.

One voice.

One familiar voice.

John thought about screaming some kind of warning, but he couldn’t think of what to say, and he wasn’t even sure he could draw the breath needed to shout. He wasn’t sure he could speak at all. He could barely breathe, his heart beating so hard and so fast that it might as well be knocking all of the air out of his lungs.

And if he did, there was nothing stopping Moriarty from detonating the bomb and killing them both anyway.

There was a click, and the bolt locking the door unlocked.

“You can go say hi,” said Moriarty’s voice in John’s ear. “Step out.”

John swallowed, and pushed against the door. It swung forward at his touch.

He stepped out onto the tiled deck beside the pool, the lights beneath the water throwing a wavering eerie light around the walls of the room.

The surface of the pool rolled in gentle little waves and sparkled with the submerged lights, creating just enough light to see by.

The room was empty, save one person.

There, by the edge of the pool, was Sherlock.

In a way, it was an immense relief to see Sherlock. But in another, arguably greater way, John had hoped he wouldn’t be there.

Sherlock took one step towards John, and then stopped.

Moriarty spoke into John’s earpiece. “Be polite. Say ‘evening’.”

“Evening,” said John, rather mechanically.

Sherlock frowned deeply. “John?”

John could see that Sherlock had expected someone to appear. But he wouldn’t have been expecting John to walk out to meet him, seemingly of his own accord. Maybe that was all this was. Another way for Moriarty to dictate the terms of the meeting. Making sure nothing was as expected.

“Now say, ‘Nice touch, this. The pool. Where little Carl died.’,” said Moriarty.

Now the pool made sense. That understanding did nothing to help John’s nerves. He repeated the message, tonelessly, trying desperately to think of some way to give Sherlock a better understanding of their situation.

 “What’s…?” said Sherlock uncertainly, looking at John before turning a full circle to survey the pool, trying to look in all directions.

“I stopped his heart,” said John, repeating the words Moriarty was saying in his ear, and Sherlock’s attention snapped back to John. “Stopped his heart. I’ve stopped a lot of hearts.”

In the back of his mind, John could remember hearing horror stories about captured soldiers blinking messages in Morse in videos that were to be sent home. When your script is written for you, there are only so many ways to talk without words.

John blinked three times fast, then three times slow, then three fast again.

S-O-S.

Sherlock frowned.

John blinked again, S-O-S, and then glanced down at his chest and back up.

Sherlock’s eyes followed, looking at the coat. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

John heard Moriarty make a little gleeful gasp in his ear. “Have you been trying to tell him?” said Moriarty, sounding delighted rather than angry. “Have you? Nicely done, Johnny-boy. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

John said nothing, but stared hard at Sherlock in what he hoped was a silent warning.

“In that case… Perhaps you should show him the bomb now,” said Moriarty’s voice. “Just so he knows where we stand for all of this. Show him the bomb, nice and easy, and say…”

John unzipped the jacket the rest of the way and pulled it open to reveal the semtex stitched into the jacket lining and the harness he was wearing beneath it, trying not to look as afraid as he felt. “… I could stop this heart too. Properly, this time.”

As if on cue, little red lights appeared from nowhere, half a dozen winking into existence on his chest. Sniper dots.

John swallowed hard.

If the sniper responsible for these lights was the same sniper he and Sherlock had been looking for, then the last time they had been this close had ended with John dead in the sand just outside Sangin.

John fixed his eyes on Sherlock so he didn’t have to look at the red lights dancing across his chest.

Sherlock looked at the red lights, and then again turned his gaze around the room. He spoke, loudly, almost confidently, except John knew him well enough to know it was anything but. “Then let’s talk. You don’t need to persuade me. You have my undivided attention.”

There was a long pause.

Then behind John, on the far side of the pool, a door opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gottle o’ beer, gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ goddammit 
> 
> ~
> 
> TIME TO PANIC
> 
> Happy Halloween, everyone! Here’s a ~spoopy~ update XD
> 
> I couldn’t resist the opportunity to write John’s side of the pool meeting, just for this chapter. After all, he did just vanish in the last update... to where we all knew he'd end up. All things considered I think he's keeping it together really well. Real well. Super. Not panicking at all... definitely no internal screaming... 8[  
> I really do love writing John -- I hope I’ve done him justice. Needless to say, he’s not had a great day so far.  
> (also, how could I pass up trying my hand at creepy earpiece Jim?)
> 
> I won’t say too much this time, other than I’m super super super excited to have reached this point in the story at long last. >:)  
> Thanks for reading! Your feedback means the world to me. <3  
> See you very soon with the next chapter!


	33. The Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST THE CONTINUATION  
> I very much hope it's worth the wait. And the next chapter is done and will be follow this one in just a few days, so you won't have to wait too long this time...   
> but goddamn   
> this chapter  
> enjoy? ;D <3

At the sound of the door opening across the shimmering cerulean of the pool, Sherlock locked his gaze on the far wall, narrowing his eyes. He watched, and waited.

John stayed still in front of him, obviously wary of making any movements while there were sniper lights trained on his chest. But he was all attention as well, his eyes fixed on nothing while he was listening instead.

“Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket?” called a male voice.

Irish accent. Sherlock remembered that he had speculated as much weeks ago. The name Moriarty had its roots in Gaelic. And he could read a flash of recognition in John’s expression that said that John had heard this voice before.

It had been a shock, to be approached by John upon entering the pool, but now Sherlock could see the logic behind it. It set the stage. It took the relief of seeing John seemingly unhurt and twisted it. Sherlock had figured out quickly enough that John’s words on his arrival were being dictated with an earpiece of some sort by an unseen third person —so this must be that person.

So this must really be Moriarty.

The voice spoke again, as someone stepped out through the open door. “Or are you just happy to see me?”

The man who appeared was young—close to the same age as Sherlock, if he had to guess—and sharply dressed in an expensive, well-fitting suit. His dark hair was carefully slicked back, and he had an unexpectedly gleeful expression on his face. He smiled as he walked along the edge of the pool and turned toward where Sherlock and John stood, taking slow, casual strides.

In response to the question, Sherlock pulled out John’s gun from where he had concealed it at his back, and calmly raised it to point at Moriarty. “Both.”

John let out a short breath.

The man smiled, and came to a halt, resting his hands in the pockets of his suit. He didn’t even glance at the gun. “Jim Moriarty,” he said brightly. “Hiii.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side inquisitively, looking Moriarty from head to toe. The usual deductive insights weren’t enough to paint a clear picture of… anything. Moriarty smiling in spite of a gun being leveled at his head probably said something about the man’s character, but then, Sherlock had known for a long time that Moriarty wasn’t like every other criminal.

When no one spoke for a moment, Moriarty continued, still perfectly at ease, “I was so happy to get your message, Sherlock. I really was.”

“Clearly no point delaying our meeting any longer,” Sherlock replied coolly.

“I agree. I thought I should force the issue. Why bore myself waiting? I already knew I had your interest, if not your full attention.”

“You did have my attention.”

“Did I really, though?” asked Moriarty. He circled John slowly, until he stood behind him and just to the side. “I know I have it now. Now that you can’t hide from me in your cozy little flat and have pleasant little evenings without me on your mind. I wanted to _consume_ your _life_.”

Sherlock smirked, just barely. “Wow. Sounds _just_ a bit possessive.”

“I don’t like sharing,” said Moriarty simply, with a little shrug.

“Then why share so much information with me? You’ve given me access to what I can only assume is years’ worth of your work.”

“Oh, I have my reasons,” said Moriarty serenely. “Consider it a friendly invitation, or a friendly warning. Depending on how this meeting goes.”

“Ah.” Sherlock adjusted his grip on the gun to hold it steady with both hands. “So you intend to threaten me.”

Moriarty offered a rueful little frown. “Only if I need to. It’s your own fault. You’re the one who decided to go poking around, and now you’re in my way.”

“Thank you.”

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Yes you did.”

Moriarty sighed, “Yeah, okay, I did. I’ve invested a lot in getting you to play, ever since you showed up on my radar. I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock—just a teeny glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world.”

“I’m flattered. I’m sure there are very few you’d deem worth the expense. Or the time.”

“Yes, well,” said Moriarty, with an oddly flirtatious grin, “it’s been fun watching you dance.”

“So you said in your first note,” said Sherlock. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re at the center of a web of criminal connections tugging at threads. The looming puppeteer tugging on this string or that string directing every move your people make without having to show yourself. Always above it all. Profiting off those less skilled. Orchestrating perfect chaos.”

“It’s so easy making people run about helter-skelter, whether it’s for me or from me,” said Moriarty. “Take the little tiff by your lovely little flat a few days ago, for example.”

“You set off the bomb on Baker Street so you could see who was living in our flat,” said Sherlock—he knew it had to be true, so he didn’t frame it as a question. “We would have to evacuate, and the time spent milling about on the street gave you more than enough time to observe us.”

Moriarty beamed. “Ding-ding-ding. Just so.”

It was obvious now. Things were always obvious in hindsight. “Clearly you got the information you needed to get inside,” said Sherlock. “Since the three of us are standing here as a result.”

“I mean, it’s a bit easy to see what degree of personal security you have in place when your windows are blown to bits and there are people moving in and out through the front door all day,” said Moriarty, with his hands clasped behind his back and in a tone one would associate with explaining something to a child. “And repairmen who can be threatened and bribed into talking later. I just moved things along.”

“Very nicely done,” admitted Sherlock. “And much faster than having your spies amongst the Black Lotus watch me and my movements for weeks.”

“You may have picked up on this already, considering how I got you to meet me here tonight, but I’m not a very patient person.”

“Was it worth sacrificing Gruner, just to get a glimpse of how I live?” probed Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “He made you millions.”

“His purpose had expired,” said Moriarty, with a careless shrug. “All people can be replaced. Especially when they’re just self-serving businessmen. It was worth a few million pounds. You’re worth quite a lot, to me.”

“Worth at least a hefty fortune and half a dozen lives, apparently,” said Sherlock. He felt like he was issuing a challenge in saying it—insisting the blame for those lost lives was not his. “General Shan. Jeff Hope’s victims. Just to name a few. And those are just the ones since I first heard about you.”

Moriarty made a dismissive noise. “Don’t tell me you’re shocked?”

“Not at all.” Sherlock kept his tone conversational. “But then, none of the people you’ve used or disposed of have much meaning to you, do they? You’ve helped killers. _You’ve_ killed.”

Moriarty slapped himself lightly on one wrist. “You’ve got me. I’ve been a very naughty boy.” He shrugged, exaggerating the movement of his shoulders until it was bordering on comical. “Really, I’m just a specialist, you see… like you!”

“A consulting criminal, you might say,” said Sherlock.

Moriarty beamed at the phrasing. “Just so.”

“And you have been for quite some time, it would seem.”

“Longer than most would guess, given my youthful good looks,” said Moriarty coyly, batting his eyes. “But you don’t guess. You know.”

Sherlock knew. He could see it written in Moriarty’s eyes, a stark and black promise that for years he had killed and could kill and would continue to kill, and in all that time he would feel nothing.

“Why do it?” Sherlock said. “Why kill Carl Powers, for instance? You must have been close in age. Still children. Why kill him?”

“Because I’m the Devil, darling,” said Moriarty, singsong and teasing. “Because he laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing. Because I wanted to see what it felt like. Because I’m a consulting criminal. Because that’s what I do.”

“People have _died_ ,” said Sherlock again, and he thought he sounded rather like John in saying it—steadfastly and pointlessly pointing out the world’s obvious injustices.

“That’s what _people_ _do_ ,” said Moriarty, a little more sharply. “They _die_.” He leaned forward, turning his head to look at John sidelong. “Just ask your pet here. He should know that better than most.”

Sherlock glanced at John, almost in spite of himself—John’s jaw was set, gaze angled down. He wasn’t certain if Moriarty’s comment was meant to call to mind John’s supposed death in Afghanistan or his career experience as a doctor in a warzone. Either way, he could see John actively working to give no indication which it was, so Sherlock did the same, if only to buy himself another moment or two. “He’s not my pet.”

“You’ve been keeping him locked up like a neglected dog for weeks,” said Moriarty, looking affronted, as if on John’s behalf. “’Pet’ seems like a fitting description to me.”

“A client, not a pet,” repeated Sherlock.

Moriarty leaned forward to look at John’s face. “Is that so?” When John remained mute, he added, “You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead.”

John was stony-faced.

Moriarty gave a little pout, huffing out a bored sigh, and he turned his attention back to Sherlock. “Seems like a lot of trouble. Keeping a live-in client.”

“But an interesting client,” said Sherlock. “Which can make all the difference.”

“Oh, of course,” said Moriarty, with a decisive nod. “Considering how you’ve been hiding him away all this time, he must be very interesting indeed.” He took a step towards Sherlock. “But why is that, exactly?”

Sherlock paused, inwardly collecting himself. _Gently, gently._ He permitted himself a very small smile. “Why do you think? He led me to you.”

Moriarty blinked, and let out a startled laugh. “You _tease_ ,” he said with a grin. “You shameless tease. Such a smooth-talker. You’re right, of course. You’d be lumped together with the rest of the world’s population of idiots if you hadn’t stolen him from me.”

“Wasn’t yours in the first place,” said John unexpectedly, quiet but resolute.

Moriarty’s head snapped to the side to look at John, and he peered at him with interest. He tutted. “But you see, Johnny-boy, I went through all the trouble of killing you, so I can stake my claim. I _took_ your life. So it should belong to me. _Mine_. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

John shot Moriarty a dark look, and it was only in that second that Sherlock noticed that, beneath the fear and confusion, John was _seething_ with anger.

But then, people don’t often confront the person who murdered them. In doing so, there would be an emotional factor to consider. And likely not a forgiving one.

Oblivious or indifferent to John’s fury, Moriarty turned his attention to Sherlock once more. “It’s true that we can thank John here for bringing us together, Sherlock, both back then and now. And of course, there are some points of interest to that story that I would love to chat about, while we’re here.”

Sherlock had wondered when they would come to this. He had known they would, sooner or later, but that didn’t make it any less disquieting.

“Namely, how did you do it?” asked Moriarty.

Sherlock fought hard to keep a hold on at least some measure of calm and self-control. “Do what, exactly?”

Moriarty rolled his eyes, and said, “Darling, don’t play dumb. How did you acquire an army doctor who by all accounts is supposed to be dead, _and_ missing? Tell me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I want to know.” Moriarty tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. “You can tell me. You can _confide_ in me. Tell me.”

“You can’t figure it out yourself?” inquired Sherlock coolly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a twitch at the corner of John’s mouth, the meaning perfectly clear without words. _Even in_ this _situation, you’re still managing to be a smart arse show-off git_.

Moriarty laughed. “Oh, I definitely can. But I want to hear it from you.”

Sherlock hesitated, and then he said, without a modicum of emotion behind it, “I was hired by the British secret service to handle his case outside the official channels, which you obviously hacked into long ago.”

Moriarty made a noise like a buzzer. “Not buying it. Try again!”

“I was working to fake his death in exchange for his silence regarding my history of prescription opiate abuse.”

Another loud buzzer imitation. “Try again!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps your sniper was good but not good enough. John Watson survived a life-threatening wound to the left shoulder. Not only did he live, but he was given your name by the informant who double-crossed you. How does the saying go? ‘No honor among thieves’—or in your case I should say no honor among arms dealers. In any case, the still-living Watson is sent into hiding and smuggled back to the UK on the pretense of being dead. He was never in St. Bart’s morgue, though you certainly thought he was. He’s not the only soldier to leave the field in a body bag. I was brought in to complete the subterfuge. I regularly advise the police and I have connections to people at the highest levels of British intelligence. You’ve infiltrated the usual spy networks before, so instead it’s decided that control of the investigation will go to me. You send your people to steal a body only to find no body to steal. I assume you wanted John’s body to destroy it. After all, you wouldn’t want to leave a bullet in a corpse that you didn’t manage to blow to smithereens, and you do seem to enjoy playing mind games with the British government. But instead you get nothing and Watson, not dead, goes into a kind of witness protection under my supervision. I find you, thanks to his information and your blundering smugglers failing to kill me when they had the chance. And now here we are.”

There was a pause, and then Moriarty let out an excited laugh, and clapped his hands together. “Oh. _Oh_ , you’re _good_. That’s clever, I’ll admit. Very tidy. Very well done. And succinctly summarized, I might add. You’ve managed it all rather neatly. Like something out of a James Bond film.”

“If you have an alternative explanation, I would love to hear it,” said Sherlock, allowing a hint of a dare to enter his voice.

“Oh, I don’t think there exists a more plausible explanation than that. I have to admit, your explanation is a lot better than what _I_ thought had happened,” Moriarty conceded with another even more excited laugh. His dark eyes flashed. “It’s awkward to say it aloud, but… I would have guessed _magic_.”

Sherlock blinked.

Moriarty made a face and smoothed his hair back, feigning embarrassment. “Can you believe that? I’d have guessed you brought him back to life, as if by _magic_.”

Horror had to be all over Sherlock’s face and he couldn’t stop it from showing. He could barely process the words. Shock and confusion and sudden, swooping terror locked him in place and froze every word and every thought he could think to say in his defense.

_As if by magic_.

Moriarty couldn’t know. He couldn’t know. He _couldn’t_ —

Moriarty’s voice broke through Sherlock’s panic. “Am I right?” he asked, practically bouncing on the spot with obvious delight. “I am, aren’t I?”

Sherlock gaped at Moriarty, avoiding John’s gaze as if it was eye contact and not skin contact that would kill him instantly, because he knew the truth would read on his face if they looked at one another. “What are you _talking_ about?” he managed, letting all of his panic focus into a tone of utter disbelief.

“You can’t hide from me,” said Moriarty gleefully, drinking in the look on Sherlock’s face with obvious relish. “You can pretend for everyone else, sure. But they’re idiots. They’re _idiots_ , every single one of them. All suffering from the same failure of imagination.”

“Failure of imagination?” repeated Sherlock incredulously.

Moriarty let out a breathy little giggle. “You say that like that isn’t the real problem with the rest of the world. People like things they can explain. They only ever look for the predictable solutions. It’s depressing. It lacks imagination.”

“Reality usually does,” said Sherlock.

“But you’re the exception to that rule, aren’t you?” said Moriarty, smiling widely.

Sherlock took one step forward, clutching the gun like a drowning man would clutch a piece of driftwood, so that the barrel was less than an arm’s length from Moriarty’s head. He stared Moriarty down. “ _You’re insane_.”

Moriarty’s eyes flickered from the gun to Sherlock’s face, still smiling without faltering. “I can make you tell me,” he said, and his tone was suddenly much sharper.

Sherlock closed mental floodgates to trap any surges of panic. The key to all of this was to maintain control. To weather Moriarty’s threats, learn his terms, and leave alive. That was all he needed to do. Be patient, and cautious, and calm. “That would be incredibly ambitious of you.”

Moriarty tilted his head. “Is that a challenge.”

“A fact, I think.”

Sherlock and Moriarty eyed one another for a moment.

Finally, Moriarty took a step back, looking Sherlock up and down as if sizing him up. “I don’t want to have to force the issue, but I will, if you make me. The flirting’s over, Sherlock… Daddy’s had enough now.”

He raised his hand in a brief wave.

Suddenly a door—the side door that John had first stepped through—opened. For the first time in several minutes, John moved, as he and Sherlock both jumped and turned their heads in the direction of the door. Reflexively, Sherlock pointed John’s gun at the door, wavering, before he returned his aim to Moriarty’s head, but he watched the door.

A man stepped out of the locker room, a few paces bringing him to stand at John’s side, where he stopped and gazed impassively from Sherlock—standing apart, gun raised—to John, kept in place by the sniper lights still on his chest. The newcomer was Chinese. Muscled, wiry, and inscrutable.

And Sherlock recognized him.

“This is turning into a proper party,” said Moriarty. He gestured lazily to the man on John’s other side. “I believe you may have met before, as a matter of fact.”

“I don’t remember,” said Sherlock coldly.

But the Detective remembered everything.

In this particular moment, he vividly remembered a dark street some weeks before and the feeling of this man’s fist colliding with his cheek with enough force to send him to the ground before he was drugged and abducted by the Black Lotus. He remembered.

“No? That’s too bad,” said Moriarty. “Allow me to properly introduce you, then. This is Zhi Zhu Yao. ’The Spider’. A skilled assassin. One of my most valued.”

John swallowed.

“Now,” Moriarty continued, examining the fingernails on one hand, “I’m going to be honest with you, my dear—I don’t like getting my hands dirty.” He glanced up at Sherlock, black eyes flashing. “I’m sure you understand what I mean. But sometimes, it’s just _necessary_. And that’s why I’ve brought so many of _my_ pets out to play.”

Sherlock couldn’t think of anything to say. Was _this_ how it was going to be? Intimidation? Pain? Torture? A bomb, a sniper, and a killer, all meant to persuade him to admit his secrets? But—

Moriarty raised a hand, and snapped his fingers once.

Before Sherlock or John could move, there was a soft _pop_ and a rush of wind.

A short, violent thud.

Sherlock flinched, and he could see John do the same, and for a moment his heart leapt into his throat—he was sure, he was so sure, that he had just gotten them killed. He was going to look down and see a hole in his chest, or in John’s. They were dead. It was over. They were dead and it was his fault. They—

The assassin beside John let out a stunned, choked gasp, and his knees buckled. He crumpled and dropped to the floor.

Blood ran from a small hole right in the center of his forehead.

John’s legs shook as he stared down at the assassin lying next to him, his mouth open in horror.

Sherlock lowered John’s gun.

Zhi Zhu Yao was dead.

It was exactly the same as it had been for Shan. A single bullet from a sniper’s gun. Death, in one perfect shot.

“… You,” breathed Sherlock, without knowing what to say.

Blood was pooling on the floor under Yao’s head, black in the dim light of the room with glimmers of deepest scarlet as it flowed over tiles and along grooves of caulk and cement.

“Did you think those sniper lights were for show?” asked Moriarty, his tone morbidly amused. “Did you think I wouldn’t? I could kill you, or John, and I still might. If you force me to. I said I could make you tell me how you did it, Sherlock. But I think I’d rather you _show_ me.”

Zhi Zhu’s eyes were still open, blank and glazed and dead.

“Do you want to bring him back?” said Moriarty. “Back from the dead in an instant. I know you’ve done it before. Come on. For me?”

Sherlock tore his eyes from Zhi Zhu Yao so he could stare at Moriarty. “I…” He could barely get the words out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Moriarty’s mouth twisted into a little frown, and he looked almost sad for a moment, unexpectedly pitying. He took a few steps forward, past Zhi Zhu’s body, past John, until he stood right in front of Sherlock. He looked at Sherlock closely, inches from his face, looking up at him with his eyes narrowed. “Why are you so determined to keep pretending?” he asked softly. “I told you, Sherlock, you _can’t_ hide from me. I know. You know I do. And what matters more is that you don’t _need_ to hide from me.”

This was why they were here. So that a man could die and Sherlock could bring him back. Hadn’t Shan told him, weeks ago?

Hadn’t she _warned_ him?

Sherlock couldn’t begin to fathom how Moriarty had learned about his Gift without witnessing it. The only people living who knew what Sherlock was capable of were John, Lestrade, and Mycroft, and… none of them would have compromised him. John was a complicated affair because John was supposed to be dead, but no one would look at John and infer that he had been somehow, magically, been resurrected. It wasn’t _possible_ for Moriarty to know.

And yet here he was, with a man shot in the head for the sake of persuasion. And it was Sherlock’s fault that Yao was dead.

Moriarty spoke again. “Wouldn’t it feel good? To be free. To be praised by an equal, by someone who sees it as something to _want_ , rather than something to _fear_?”

_… Yes_.

“For me,” said Moriarty. “ _Impress me_.”

Sherlock looked at John.

John’s expression was somehow both blank and full of meaning, layers upon layers of emotion that Sherlock couldn’t even begin to parse or decipher.

John had a bomb strapped to his chest. His life, if Sherlock played this wrong, would be over—for the second time, and like the first time it would be on Moriarty’s orders. If Sherlock used his Gift now, there was no telling what would happen, or how Moriarty would choose to use the information. But if Sherlock refused… Then they would both be dead.

“… I can’t,” said Sherlock, barely over a whisper.

“Mm?” Moriarty craned his neck, peering at Sherlock.

But John understood. There was a pause, and then John nodded his head, so slowly and so slightly that it was almost unnoticeable.

_Do what you have to do_.

“I can’t,” said Sherlock again, louder this time, breaking eye contact with John to look at Moriarty. “I’m sorry. But I can’t bring him back.”

“But you _can_!” insisted Moriarty, his tone equal parts exasperated and abruptly, dangerously angry. “You can’t lie to me. Stop pretending to be boring.”

“You misunderstand. I can’t because I won’t. Because I cannot and will not be used,” said Sherlock. He raised the gun again, pointing it at Moriarty, barely an inch from his forehead. Through sheer force of will, his aim was steady. “Not by anyone. Not even by you.”

Moriarty frowned. “… You’re not going to do it,” he said slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re really not going to do it. I’m…” He took a step back. “I’m disappointed. I really thought you’d do it, for me, if I asked.”

“Death isn’t a game, Jim,” said Sherlock flatly.

“What a disgustingly ordinary thing to say,” snapped Moriarty, tone sharp. He paced away, stopping with the body at his feet. He looked down at it. After a moment, he spoke again, without lifting his gaze, “Why do you think I brought you here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked from the dead man on the floor to the red lights dancing across John’s chest. “To silence me.”

“It’s more than that.”

“To use me.”

“That’s closer,” said Moriarty. “But not quite.”

“Then tell me.”

“Because we’re just alike, you and I. Don’t you feel it?” Moriarty watched him out of the corner of his eye. The frustration of a moment ago shifted and changed into a dark kind of amusement. A pleasure that screamed danger. “I told you, my dear. We’re _made_ for each other. You just don’t see it yet. Which is disappointing, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe I’ve rushed things a bit.”

Sherlock shifted his grip on John’s gun, keeping it trained on Moriarty.

Moriarty crouched, sitting on his heels next to Zhi Zhu’s body. He stuck out his bottom lip a little, a mournful expression on his face as he looked at the dead man. “Seems like a bit of a waste to have killed him now, doesn’t it? All that talent, all that usefulness, just—poof.” He made a gesture like a little explosion with his hands. “I do that. I have so many stupid little underlings. I spend all this time choosing them carefully, making sure they’re efficient and compliant and reliable, but then they mess up and _BOOM_.” He aimed a finger (mimicking a gun) at Zhi Zhu and pantomimed firing it, with a matching sound for effect. “It seemed like a good idea a minute ago. I’m _soooooo_ changeable.”

Moriarty glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, as a wide grin came across his face. “But then, I can afford to be, when it comes to death.”

Sherlock’s heart beat faster.

Before Sherlock or John could move, or speak, or think, Moriarty reached out a hand and touched one finger to Zhi Zhu’s face.

There was a flash of golden light.

Moriarty stood.

And Zhi Zhu stirred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **leaps into the Sun**
> 
> **TWO YEARS  
>  _TWO YEARS I’VE BEEN WAITING TO WRITE THAT_**
> 
> any comments on this chapter would probably make my life  
> i need to lie down now  
> see you lovelies in a few days


	34. The Logistics of Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, the next chapter, in a punctual fashion!
> 
> we now return to Jim ruining everything for everyone

The world stood still.

It was as if the very passage of time had been broken in that flash of light. All of time and space had stopped, transfixed, and converged on this single moment.

All at once, Sherlock was eight years, three months, four days, nineteen hours, and fifty-one minutes old again. Because from that exact moment, and the twenty-five years, eight months, eleven days, two hours, and forty-three minutes since then that he had lived knowing that he could bring the dead back to life, Sherlock had been alone. In all that time, he had found himself faced with questions about life, death, and all that lay between. And he had done it all believing that his Gift was his curse alone, and that no one—no one—would ever understand what that meant.

In a way, it had been his protection. Alone had protected him for his entire life.

Because there had been something unbearably lonely, but also unbelievably comforting, in the knowledge that he was the only exception to the universe’s rules about the permanence of death.

And then, with a single touch—everything Sherlock thought he knew about himself was gone.

His every thought, his every idea, his entire being, was replaced with three short, impossible words.

_He’s like me._

Moriarty let out a wild laugh, pointing at Sherlock. “You should see your face,” he said gleefully. “Really, you should see it. It might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock just stared at Moriarty.

Moriarty was just like him.

_Moriarty was just like him._

_Moriarty was just like him—_

From his place on the ground beside John, Zhi Zhu Yao got unsteadily to his feet. Next to him, John stumbled back, looking from Yao to Sherlock to Moriarty without a clue what to do.

And Sherlock stared, frozen, broken. Both hands dropped pointlessly to his side, the fingers of his right hand barely maintaining their grip on John’s gun.

Zhi Zhu swayed on the spot, clearly in shock, with his mouth slightly agape. He reached a shaking hand up to touch the bullet wound in the center of his forehead, and then he drew his hand quickly away, staring at his bloody fingertips like he didn’t recognize them as his own.

Moriarty glanced at his wrist, where Sherlock noticed an expensive analog watch, before returning his gaze to Sherlock. “Well, a little added time pressure might help move this conversation along.”

Sherlock barely understood what Moriarty was saying. His thoughts had never moved so slowly. He might as well have been watching the scene from elsewhere, hearing this conversation from a great distance. He had forgotten how to move. He’d forgotten how to think. He’d forgotten how to breathe. If he could remember how to form sounds, he might have screamed.

Shan had warned him. She had _told_ him, in those last few words when he’d brought her back, and he’d never even considered that this is what she meant. But she’d told him.

_Nothing is beyond his reach_.

Not even in death.

Moriarty waved a hand in Sherlock’s face as if to get his attention. “Are you doing all right? Should I get you a chair? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Distinctly possible. The world was spinning under his feet.

Moriarty tapped his wrist. “Time, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, uncomprehendingly. But beside Yao, John suddenly gasped.

Moriarty gave John a brief appraising look, his gaze back to Sherlock in a second. “Wow. Your pet’s figured out the problem here before you. That’s a bit embarrassing.”

“Time,” repeated Sherlock blankly.

But as he said it aloud, it clicked.

Moriarty nodded, seeing the comprehension dawning on Sherlock’s face. “Perhaps I shouldn’t assume, but if you bring back the dead the same way I do, then you only have another thirty-four seconds before someone drops dead. Now, I don’t think my own Gift can kill me, and we four are the only ones within range. Which means in… twenty-nine seconds, either you or John will be dead.”

The almost inaudible tick of the second hand on Moriarty’s watch seemed deafening.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock thought he truly understood why his Gift was as terrifying as it was for people like Mycroft and Lestrade, for those who were witnessing and experiencing it as outsiders. The giving and taking of life seemed clear-cut and straightforward when you were the one in control. But he wasn’t in control now. John wasn’t the only hostage here.

“What do you want me to do?” said Sherlock, his heart in his throat.

“What I wanted you to do before.” Moriarty jerked his head sideways in Yao’s direction. “Touch him. See what happens.”

“I—“ Sherlock stammered, looking from Yao to Moriarty. “I don’t—“

“I don’t understand why you’re still hesitating,” said Moriarty. “It’s very simple. If you don’t do it, you or your pet will die in twenty seconds.”

Sherlock balked, shaking his head. “We don’t even know if we share this Gift like that!” he protested, voice edged with panic. “There’s no way to know if that would even work. The people you bring back might only be made dead again by you. My Gift might not have any effect on yours.”

“Now seems like a good time to find out,” said Moriarty excitedly. “Right now. You only have fourteen seconds to decid—“

“Go, Sherlock,” interrupted John.

Moriarty and Sherlock stared at him.

“I don’t remember that being an option,” said Moriarty curtly.

John and Sherlock looked at one another. John’s face was set, his expression hard, his tone forceful. “You don’t have to do anything he says. If you stay, then we’re both dead no matter what. So just go. Go, _now_.”

“Seven seconds,” said Moriarty, eyes on his watch.

“I’m not going to leave y—“ Sherlock started.

But John interrupted again, gesturing hopelessly at the door at the far end of the pool. “Sherlock, please, _go_!”

Moriarty sighed. “Let’s stop with the noble sacrifice nonsense, shall we? No one’s going anywhere.”

He snapped his fingers again.

Sniper lights appeared suddenly all around the room. Red lights danced on every door and every conceivable target—John, Sherlock, and Yao were all covered in little red dots. All three froze, still and silent, and the tick of Moriarty’s watch echoed in their ears.

Three. Two—

Moriarty reached out and touched Yao’s bloodied face. There was a flash of darkness, and then Zhi Zhu collapsed once more, a heap on the ground.

Dead, again, forever.

Behind them, John stuck out a hand to steady himself against the nearest wall.

Moriarty looked down at the body, then at his fingertips, which were stained with Yao’s blood. He strolled to the side of the pool, crouching down to wash his hand. Then he straightened, flicking droplets of water from his fingertips. He gestured to his suit as he walked back over to Sherlock. “As I said earlier, I don’t like getting my hands dirty. Last thing I want is to have to send my jacket for dry-cleaning.”

He patted Sherlock gently on the shoulder with the hand he’d used to bring back Zhi Zhu Yao—and in spite of himself, Sherlock flinched.

It didn’t escape Moriarty’s notice. He smirked and took a step back, flicking the last few beads of water on his fingertips towards Sherlock’s face. “I hate to say this, my dear, but you’ve been a bit of a disappointment tonight,” he said. “You keep refusing to do what I ask—and I have to admit, I’m getting just a touch angry.”

“I’m not a tool. Or an experiment. We have no idea if our Gifts interact,” said Sherlock, struggling and failing to sound firm.

“So we both had something to gain from you doing as I asked. But instead _you_ were too afraid to try,” said Moriarty, a little disdainfully. “And you,” he added, turning to John, “assumed it wouldn’t work, and made him even more doubtful.”

John straightened at Moriarty’s words, taking his hand away from the wall, shifting to square his shoulders.

Moriarty’s mouth twisted. “Such a defiant little soldier.”

Sherlock called away his attention, something about Moriarty turning his focus to John making him even more nervous than he already was, though he didn’t stop to try to understand why. “So this was the real reason why you wanted to meet tonight. You wanted to meet your counterpart.”

Moriarty nodded. He strode towards Sherlock, a menace somehow coloring his casual steps. “I told you I wanted your full attention. I think at this point I’ve made it clear why I deserve to have it. It might have been cruel for me to spring all of this on you without warning, I know, but I was hoping for _more_ from you. We are _equals_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock had thought that he and Moriarty were intellectual equals, perhaps, which had been thrilling in its own way. But this was different. This was beyond being matched in intellect or resources or ambition. This was Newton’s Third Law.

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” said Moriarty softly, speaking the words as if reading them from Sherlock’s mind. “It makes perfect sense. We can’t exist alone. You and I are equals. You need me, or you’re nothing. I need you.”

“At least according to the laws of physics.”

“The only laws that really matter to people like us,” said Moriarty. “You’re my equal, and despite how much we have in common, we’re certainly opposed. I’m the Devil. And here you are, apparently on the side of the angels.”

“Very biblical.”

“You have to admit it just _sounds_ good with that extra gravitas. Highlights the intensity.”

“If we’re so opposed, you can hardly expect me to play by your rules,” said Sherlock, tightening his grip on John’s gun like a drowning man would clutch a piece of driftwood, but his hand trembled too much to raise it. Its only purpose now was to give him some false sense of control, to keep him from utterly falling apart. “If you think you’re going to be able to control me, I will not make it easy for you.”

“I should hope not. But just _think_ ,” hissed Moriarty excitedly. “Think about what we could do together. We could break every law.”

“Laws exist for a reason,” said Sherlock. “There are consequences when they are broken.”

Moriarty exhaled a short breath of a laugh. “You and I would know that better than most, wouldn’t we?” He took a few careless steps forward until he was standing just behind John, watching him with interest. “He’s a consequence.”

Sherlock glanced at John too. There was a hardness in his expression, standing out despite the backdrop of fear, a resolve that Sherlock wished he had. Sherlock’s heart was beating against his ribcage like something trapped and hysterical. He felt as if he could practically hear John’s heart doing the same. And yet John still looked impossibly composed, poised for action. If it was a question of fight or flight, John—the doctor, the soldier—would almost always choose fight.

Then again, John was an idiot. A brave idiot. But bravery was always the kindest word for stupidity anyway.

Sherlock needed some of that stupidity right now. 

“Here’s the thing. You know what I’ve been wondering all night?” said Moriarty, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts, his grin fading into a kind of serene curiosity.

John shifted.

“Do you think,” Moriarty went on, watching John’s face in profile, “your pet would die if I touched him?”

The circuitry of Sherlock’s mind stopped. Every program froze. Every thought stopped and stared, and even his lungs ceased their functions for a moment, as he looked at John.

John paled, eyes dilating, breath catching.

Sherlock could see his own fear abruptly reflected in John’s face, like he was looking into a mirror.

“I just don’t _know_ ,” said Moriarty thoughtfully, locking eyes with Sherlock once more. “I haven’t tried touching him yet. I mean, _you_ were the one who brought him back to life. But then again—you’re _me_. We share a gift. So maybe he’d live. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d drop dead and stay that way this time, and then neither of us could have him to play with.”

Sherlock didn’t know.

He didn’t know.

He had no idea what would happen if Moriarty touched John—if it would change nothing or if his action could be Sherlock’s reaction.

If he’d touched Zhi Zhu Yao before, they would know exactly what would happen to John if Moriarty touched him. This was why Moriarty had wanted him to touch Yao. They would know the logistics governing the interaction between their Gifts.

He should have done it. He should have done it. Why hadn’t he done it? Why had he been so afraid— _why was he so afraid_?

Without that information, he had nothing. He had no way to know what would happen if Moriarty touched John.

All he knew was that he did not want to find out.

“That might be the fair thing to do,” said Moriarty. “After all, you stole him from _me_.”

He blew air at John’s neck. John turned his gaze upward and clenched his jaw, craning his neck ever so slightly away from Moriarty.

Moriarty grinned.  “You could have been _mine_ , Johnny-boy. _Mine_.”

“Fuck off,” said John tightly.

“Oooh,” Moriarty giggled. “Watch your mouth. I’d hate to have to shut it permanently.”

“As if John would have been yours,” Sherlock cut in, finally dragging his right arm upward to level the gun at Moriarty, ignoring the red sniper lights now dancing on his own chest.

Moriarty tilted his head to one side, watching him.

John’s distress had to be a catalyst, not a paralytic. Moriarty was just a man. Just like him. He knew that. He believed that. He had to believe that. He could make himself believe that.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “If you could deduce half as much as I can about him, you’d see how rigidly he abides by his morals. He has an excess of emotional intuition. Nerves of steel. An almost nauseating amount of empathy. Good luck subverting the conscience of someone like that. Perhaps you’re not so clever after all.”

John was looking at Sherlock now, not Moriarty.

Moriarty made a face. “Ha. I’ve done it before. People always want something. People are always willing to make a deal with the devil for the right price.”

“There’s an exception to every rule,” said Sherlock.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Moriarty carelessly. “I could have done what you’ve done. I could have fed him any story or any promise to buy his cooperation. He might be attached to you like a good little dog, as the great savior who brought him back to life after his untimely death, but it’s all a matter of perception. All a matter of perspective. Don’t act so noble when you brought him back to life purely so you could get whatever information you wanted. I’m sure that’s why you brought him back, isn’t it? For sixty seconds of questions. I’d be shocked if it was for his personal benefit. I’m sure he shared his story with you once you brought him back, no questions asked. People do that when they’re dead. He could just as easily have been sharing his story with me, had our timing been a little different.”

“That was why you went to the morgue to get John’s body,” said Sherlock hollowly, and when he met Moriarty’s eyes he could see he was right. “You just wanted the same thing I did. To learn what he knew.”

Moriarty smiled. “I like to keep things tidy. Even dead men have secrets to tell, and nothing upsets the government more than stealing the bodies of murdered soldiers. And like I said, maybe Johnny-boy would be working for me now, if you hadn’t beaten me to him. Or there’d be nothing left of him at all for us to talk to. Whichever would have amused me more.” He laughed again. “Imagine my surprise that night when I get a call from my people that there’s no one in the body bag! Like he just got up and walked right out of the morgue.” He let out a blissful sigh. “I had a feeling about you, Sherlock. You were important, even if I didn’t see how at the time. So I had you watched. After a while you got a little too close for comfort. You asked too many questions about the Black Lotus and gave them a scare. They got ahead of themselves and decided it would be safer for them, and me, if you were dead. But then—well, you can guess the look on my face when _my_ dead doctor turns up to rescue you.” Moriarty made a surprised face, mouth forming a shocked little ‘o’, but it quickly changed back into a wide grin.

“It could have been a trick,” said Sherlock, wishing that Moriarty _had_ assumed it was some elaborate plot, like Mycroft had. Anything other than the truth. “Just a magic trick.”

“He _is_ a magic trick,” Moriarty said. “The kind I’m very familiar with. I don’t suffer from the same failure of imagination as you, obviously. I _wanted_ you to be like me, so I was able to see that you were. You’re the one who refused to consider it, never mind how brilliant you’re supposed to be.”

Sherlock could see it in his mind, the connections forming between the cases and the puzzles and the branches of Moriarty’s network, from his first meeting with John to this moment. Delicate, brilliant connections that he had just – missed. That he had thought impossible. He had become so comfortable in his solitude that he’d never even considered the possibility of another person with the same Gift. The signs were there but he’d failed to see them for what they were. How many times had he convinced himself that Moriarty couldn’t know about his Gift in the two months since he’d brought John back to life? Why had he convinced himself that it had to be impossible for Moriarty, if it was possible for him? It was improbable, beyond all reasonable odds—but he should have known better than to think it was impossible.

Moriarty shrugged. “I tried to help you figure it out, I really did. I let you see how empty, and fascinating, and simple death is for me. I gave you little hints in those notes I sent. I left Shan’s body for you.”

“Why tell me?”

Moriarty looked somewhat incredulous. “Why wouldn’t I? Everything I’ve done since you stole John from me was to bring us together. Everything since then has been to get us here. To get us to this moment. It’s all been for you.”

“You’d share that dangerous of a secret just to possess my attention,” said Sherlock, and he almost admired the insanity of it.

“Why not?” said Moriarty coolly. “It’s not as if you’re going to announce it to the world.”

Of course he wouldn’t.

No one would believe him.

And even if they did, it’d be the end of Sherlock’s life just as much as it’d be the end of Moriarty’s. And John’s, and Mycroft’s, and Lestrade’s, and everyone else associated with him.

“So where do we go from here?” said Sherlock. “Now that there are no real secrets between us.”

“Oh, there’s no ‘we’,” said Moriarty. “No, this is where you back off.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “… No,” he said, trying to put as much force behind it as possible to make it a hard refusal, but even as he said it, it sounded feeble.

Moriarty offered him the kind of look one might give a small child who’d failed to execute a very simple task. “You might want to reconsider. Do you know what happens if you don’t stop interfering with my work?” he said, tilting his head as he spoke, black eyes glittering.

“I’m guessing I get killed,” said Sherlock simply, watching Moriarty’s progress.

“Nooo,” said Moriarty slowly. He paused, and amended, “At least, not yet, I hope. Not today. This isn’t your day.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. “Isn’t it?”

“No, no, no. Not yet. I’m saving you for something special. This was never supposed to be how you die. If I wanted you to die here, you’d already be dead. No, this was because I had to meet you. My other half.”

“So you and John and I will simply go our separate ways until you decide you need me,” said Sherlock. “Or need me dead.”

“More or less,” said Moriarty, still smiling. “Make no mistake, Sherlock, I will kill you. Someday. But I don’t want to have to kill you _now_. Like I said, I’m saving that for something special. So I won’t kill you until I need to kill you. But obviously, that doesn’t mean you can run off and keep interfering with my work without consequence. Don’t be stupid. No. We’re here tonight so I could meet you, and so I could warn you that if you don’t back off, I’ll burn you.”

Sherlock blinked.

“I’ll _burn_ the _heart_ out of you,” said Moriarty, his voice harsh with emphasis.

“You may be disappointed at how little there is to burn,” said Sherlock flatly.

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

The red sniper lights hovering on the doors around the room and over Sherlock’s chest abruptly raced across walls and tiles to cluster on John, quivering just above his heart. Almost exactly where the bullet that had killed him had struck.

John didn’t react, but Sherlock’s heart rate somehow managed to increase further, shuddering and racing so desperately that he thought setting it on fire might actually be less painful.

Moriarty began to back up, a lazy meander to the distant doors at the far end of the pool. “If you don’t stay away, I’ll burn you. I’d hate to lose you, Sherlock, but I will burn you if you get in my way. I’m giving you this warning because I like watching you dance, and I might even want to use you someday soon. But if our paths have to cross like this again—if you cross _me_ —it will be the end of you.” He held his arms aloft in a sweeping gesture. “You’re just one consulting detective. I am an _empire_.”

“I will _catch you_ ,” said Sherlock harshly, more to convince himself than anyone else.

“No you won’t!” called Moriarty, his voice high and sing-song. He leaned against the far door. “But I’ll see you soon, Sherlock. I promise.”

He pushed the door open and disappeared into the room beyond.

The red lights dancing on John’s chest vanished.

The door swung closed with a bang that echoed across the pool, and just like that, Moriarty was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m just gonna… lie down… and cry now… thanks…
> 
> ~
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading - and thank you especially for your comments! :D <3  
> See you soon with the next chapter ~


	35. Let Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M FINALLY BACK
> 
> let's just jump right back into the fray, shall we

The sound of the door swinging shut reverberated around the room for a long moment, slowly fading away into silence. Several seconds passed, and neither Sherlock nor John moved. But Moriarty did not reappear, and the sniper lights did not return, and the silence stretched on.

Sherlock lurched forward to the door through which Moriarty had vanished, and he wrenched it open, aiming the gun inside. But the locker room beyond was already dark and deserted. Moriarty had planned his exit, and taken it.

For a full five seconds, Sherlock stared into the dark locker room beyond, and then he stepped back. “He’s gone.”

John’s breath left him all in a rush. He stuck out a hand to hold himself up, touching the wall, weak at the knees. “Holy hell. Holy _fucking_ hell.”

Sherlock hurried back, facing John, looking from his face to the semtex on his chest to his face again. He set John’s gun down on the ground between them. “Are you all right?”

Something about that question seemed so ludicrous in the moment that John let out a very weird and very breathless laugh.

To Sherlock, John might as well have screamed bloody murder. “ _Are you all right_?” he demanded. He shifted one side of the coat to look at the bomb strapped to John’s chest, before he suddenly jerked his hand back, as if the fabric had burned him.

“I’m fine,” said John, following Sherlock’s gaze and looking down at the bomb he was wearing. “I’m.” The weight of the bomb seemed to be increasing with every second he wore it. There was only so much that adrenaline and battlefield experience could do to stave off the panic of being strapped to explosives.

Sherlock was obviously thinking along the same lines. He reached forward shakily. “Shit,” he muttered, hands hovering around the coat without actually touching it. They were trembling. “Shit. I need to…”

“Are you sure you can?” asked John, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s shaking hands.

“Of course I can,” said Sherlock automatically, almost irritated, but he didn’t do anything.

“Do you think it’s…?” started John, without finishing the sentence. He didn’t think he needed to. They both knew the answer. Of course it wasn’t safe. One false move and the bomb would go off. One thoughtless move by either of them and John would drop dead.

John looked up at Sherlock’s face. His eyes were wide, and he was even paler than usual, and his entire body was trembling from nerves or adrenaline or fear or some combination of the three, and he wasn’t moving.

“I can’t,” said Sherlock after a moment. He looked at John, anxious and apologetic. He drew his hands away slightly. “I don’t – I don’t think I can take off the bomb without accidentally touching you. I’m.”

“It’s okay,” said John, trying to sound reassuring even though he felt far from calm. “I get it. It’s fine.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s—we should get help. Call the police.”

“Help,” Sherlock repeated blankly. He nodded. “Right. Help. I did that already.”

John frowned. “When?”

“Before I got here.” Sherlock dug his mobile out of his pocket fumblingly and looked at it. Several missed calls, a handful of texts. “Not that it’s done us any good.”

“But—“

Somewhere beyond the pool room was the sound of a door opening and slamming shut. John and Sherlock spun, looking towards the door through which the sound had come, and Sherlock scrambled to pick up the discarded gun and raise it again, aiming at the door at the far end of the pool. Neither of them moved, or spoke.

The door opened, but no one appeared.

A moment passed, and then Sherlock lowered his gun. “MYCROFT!”

“… Mycroft?” John repeated.

As he spoke, several people in body armor, guns in hand, came through the door, clearly checking that the room was clear, and John felt eerily like someone had just opened a door to a raid back in Afghanistan.

Behind all of them stood Mycroft.

Sherlock locked eyes with his older brother. “There’s a bomb,” he said flatly, and he pointed at John’s chest.

Mycroft wordlessly stepped back from the door and several more people came through, hurrying to John and immediately starting to disable the explosives beneath the jacket.

Sherlock took a few steps back, but he didn’t go far, and it was only after a couple minutes—when it was clear that Sherlock wasn’t going anywhere—that Mycroft came forward to stand next to him. Sherlock’s gaze flickered in Mycroft’s direction briefly.

“What’s happened?” asked Mycroft, his tone crisp and businesslike in a way that startled John, considering that Mycroft had just walked in on Sherlock pointing a gun at him while John stood there wearing a live bomb.

“You’re late, that’s what happened,” snapped Sherlock. “You’re late. He’s already gone. He was here and now he’s gone.”

“I had no warning, Sherlock—you gave me less than thirty minutes to get a response team together and get here, and I didn’t know what any of us were going to be up against. I did the best I could—“

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock interrupted him. “He was prepared for everything. He had the entire timeline worked out perfectly.” He scratched his head with the barrel of the gun, pacing up and down the side of the pool.

“But you met him. You met Moriarty. In person.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure it was him?”

“I’m sure.”

“How?”

Sherlock barked a harsh little laugh. “Trust me, Mycroft, I’m sure. He gave me irrefutable proof that he was who he said he was.”

“Then _how_ ,” said Mycroft, and it was only now that any hint of strain entered his tone, “are you standing here, _alive_ , if he’s already gone?”

Sherlock gestured again with John’s gun, still pacing. “He doesn’t want me dead yet.”

“ _Yet_?” Mycroft repeated.

“God, if you’re just going to keep repeating everything that I say—“

Mycroft stepped to the side to block Sherlock’s path, so that he was forced to stop pacing. “I need information, Sherlock. _Elaborate_.”

Sherlock glared at him. “ _Extrapolate_.”

Mycroft bristled, and he and Sherlock stared at each other, eyes narrowed, with the sort of intensity that John would associate with two aliens trying to set one another on fire with their eyes. Some sort of furious, silent debate must have passed between them, because after a moment Mycroft straightened and took a step back. “We’ll discuss this elsewhere,” he said coldly. “We can have a private conversation then.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock, with equal enthusiasm. “We need to go back to Baker Street.”

His brother blinked in surprise. “Surely that would be ill-advised now, given how Moriarty had John abducted from there. And considering how well he anticipated our moves tonight.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s the point. We need to go back to Baker Street, _now_.”

“How reckless are you going to insist on being—“

John might have interrupted them, but at that moment the cluster of people working on disabling the bomb he was wearing eased his arms out of the coat, and quickly retreated with it. The second the coat was off and several yards away, all the adrenaline in John’s body seemed to evaporate. He took two steps to the side and his knees gave way. He sank into a crouch, hand sliding down the wall, and he turned until his back was resting against the tile. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. “ _Fuck_.”

“You all right?”

John opened his eyes. Sherlock had stepped away from Mycroft, and was now standing in front of him. His overall expression looked more or less in control, but from his eyes he looked anything but. Anxious and concerned and frustrated all at once.

John nodded. “Now that I’m not wearing a bomb? I’m great.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Sorry about that. About not being able to do anything about it.”

John shrugged and said, trying for a smile, “Probably for the best that professionals did it. And it’s fine that Mycroft’s lot didn’t get here in time to see you ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might’ve talked.”

Sherlock didn’t laugh. “People do little else.” He scratched his head with the muzzle of John’s gun again (which—now that John wasn’t distracted by a bomb—was exceedingly nerve-wracking). “Nice that you’re already at the stage where you can joke about dying.”

John gave him a look. “Sherlock, if _I_ , a dead person, can’t joke about dying, then no one can.”

Sherlock tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work. It looked more like a grimace.

 _He’s still thinking about Moriarty. Of course he is_ , thought John. _He’s probably barely keeping it together right now_. “Do we really need to get back to Baker Street right now?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded curtly.

“Why? Is something wrong?”

Sherlock cut him off, nodding again. “We need to go.”

John bit his lip, but he nodded as well. If Sherlock said it was important, John believed him.

Sherlock turned and paced away down the pool deck until he reached Zhi Zhu Yao’s body. He stopped, and stared down at it.

Mycroft took Sherlock’s place in front of John. He extended an uncertain hand to John, who paused before he grasped it and pulled himself up to his feet. “What happened, exactly? How serious is this?” Mycroft asked, his tone quiet but sharp.

John hesitated, then shook his head. “It’s… I think Sherlock should explain. The important thing is that Moriarty knows a lot more about Sherlock’s Gift than I think any of us would have ever thought possible.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened, and his gaze turned to Sherlock. “Is he in danger?”

John took a breath. “… Yeah.”

He and Mycroft exchanged a knowing look and walked after Sherlock. They passed him, and continued on towards the doors leading out of the pool, anticipating a quick departure—but Sherlock didn’t follow them. They both stopped, and hung back, watching Sherlock look at Yao with some trepidation.

Sherlock crouched, balancing on his toes at Zhi Zhu Yao’s side, and he extended a hand slowly. His movement started and stopped over and over again like a malfunctioning robot. His hand shook, and hesitated less than an inch from Yao’s face.

He took a breath, and touched Yao’s bloody cheek.

Nothing happened.

Sherlock’s hand shook more violently.

He touched Yao’s face again.

There was nothing. No flash of light, no flash of darkness. Yao lay unchanged on the tiled floor, dead and still.

Sherlock stood abruptly and walked past John, past Mycroft—even as both started to speak—and past everyone else until he reached the exit doors. He pushed them open, and vanished from view.

Mycroft and John exchanged looks, and both hurried after him.

By the time they got outside, Sherlock was already beyond the perimeter formed by the swarm of cars Mycroft had brought with him, and he was on the street, hailing a cab whose driver had stopped because he was undoubtedly wondering why there was a cluster of black sedans and MOD vans parked around an athletics center in the middle of the night. “What are you doing?” said Mycroft, walking quickly until he was close enough for Sherlock to hear him.

Sherlock opened the cab door. “Taking a cab.”

“I can see that, but _why_?”

“Because if I ride with you, you’ll try to talk to me,” said Sherlock shortly, climbing in the car and slamming the door, before it drove off.

John stood next to Mycroft, watching the cab trundle down the street and around the corner. He glanced at Mycroft out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you require medical attention?” asked Mycroft, after a few seconds of silence.

“No.”

“Then we should go too.” Mycroft turned and stalked to the closest of his cars, opening the back door. He climbed in, and John followed suit, as Mycroft snapped to the driver, “221B Baker Street. With haste.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

The advantage to taking the same car as Mycroft was Mycroft’s apparent ability to get away with having his driver go well above the legal speed limit through parts of London without consequence. As a result, Sherlock’s cab had only just reached Baker Street by the time Mycroft and John were pulling up to the flat. Sherlock had slammed the door of his cab and was digging around in his pockets for his keys.

“Wait here,” Mycroft snapped at his driver the second the car had come to a stop, and he climbed out of the car with John in close pursuit. “We need to _talk_ , Sherlock! Preferably before we go charging into your flat, since the location and security are now quite clearly compromised—”

Sherlock ignored him, and shoved his key into the lock. He unlocked the front door and pushed it open, stepping into the entryway and leaving Mycroft and John on the street with little choice but to hurry after him.

The three of them had barely filed into the front hall when a voice called out, “Who’s there? I warn you, I’m armed.”

“You can stand down now, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, completely unfazed. In fact, he and Mycroft both looked unsurprised as Lestrade appeared from the far end of the hall next to the stairs, a gun raised and leveled at the door.

“Sherlock?” said Lestrade, lowering his gun and quickly stowing it once he’d recognized them. “Christ, you scared me for a second… You could have texted that you were on the way.”

John was evidently the only person who had no idea what was going on (which wasn’t that out of the ordinary, when he thought about it). “What’re you doing here, Greg?”

“Keeping an eye on Mrs. Hudson,” said Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to appear at Lestrade’s elbow, wearing a nightdress and dressing gown and with a soapy skillet clutched somewhat menacingly in one hand, though she too lowered her weapon upon seeing the group clustered by the door.

“But…?” said John.

Sherlock crossed to the foot of the stairs and looked over his shoulder at John. “You don’t seriously think I’d leave Baker Street unguarded while meeting Moriarty? Do you think I’m _stupid_?”

“No,” said John, feeling thoroughly overwhelmed but admittedly relieved to know there had been a police officer guarding their house and their landlady. At least she wouldn’t have been abducted the same way he had been.

“Sherlock called a few hours ago and told me to get over here,” Lestrade explained. “He just said you’d gone and he wanted someone here in case the Black Lotus tried to enter the house.”

“Where have you _been_ , John?” added Mrs. Hudson anxiously. “The upstairs is a _mess_.”

“I…” stammered John, looking at Sherlock once again, at a complete loss. Had Sherlock seriously rushed off on some sort of insane rescue mission without telling anyone what had happened?

“John was picked up by Moriarty earlier today,” said Mycroft. “Apparently as incentive for a private meeting between Moriarty and my brother. A meeting none of us were made aware of until the last possible moment.”

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson both stared at John and Sherlock. “ _Moriarty_?” repeated Lestrade, paling. “Jesus, you mean you _met him_? And you’re _okay_?”

“Yeah. That is – I mean…” John gave a quick recounting of everything that had happened to him, from the moment the Black Lotus had broken into 221B, to waking up in the locker room, to finding a bomb on his chest, to hearing Moriarty in his ear, and finally to walking out to the pool to join Sherlock. No one said a word while he spoke, other than a few squeaks of horror from Mrs. Hudson.

“And then…” John said, having reached Moriarty’s entrance, but he hesitated. He glanced at Sherlock, who hadn’t moved or spoken since John had started talking. He was just leaning against the wall at the foot of the main staircase, eyes narrowed and looking at nothing. Sherlock didn’t speak when John paused, and so John finished, rather lamely, “And then Moriarty turned up. And he and Sherlock talked, and then Moriarty just – left, and… let us go.”

“… _Shit_ ,” said Lestrade, after a long silence.

Somehow, a monosyllabic profanity seemed like the only reasonable thing to say in response to a story like that.

“Now we all know where we’ve been. And now, I have things to attend to,” said Sherlock curtly, and he turned and started to climb the stairs.

“That still doesn’t explain why Moriarty wanted to meet with you in the first place,” called Mycroft, watching Sherlock ascend the stairs.

Sherlock spun about and glared down at his brother. “I’d have thought you’d have wheedled the answer to that particular question out of John by now. You had plenty of time on the drive here.”

John intervened. “I thought _you_ should explain, since it’s _about you_.”

“Very considerate of you,” Sherlock snapped sarcastically, before hurrying the rest of the way upstairs, without bothering to explain anything at all.

Lestrade stared after him, then turned his gaze to John. “It’s _that_ bad?”

John nodded.

“Well, _shit_ ,” Lestrade said again.

Mycroft started up the stairs. “He can’t avoid discussing this forever, no matter how distressed he is. Keeping us all in the dark now is only wasting time.”

There were several loud thumps from upstairs.

Mycroft, John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson froze just long enough to look at one another with wide-eyed and panicked expressions before they all rushed upstairs.

Mycroft was the first one through the door. “Sherlock?!”

Sherlock was perfectly fine.

More importantly, he was standing on one of the chairs heaving one stack of books after another onto the floor from the shelves along the wall. “Why did I let you get my flat cleaned?” he demanded, without turning around, and he chucked another stack of books onto the carpet with a loud, dull _thud_.

Lestrade leaned close to John and whispered, “Are we all confused now, or am I just as stupid as he says I am?”

“It’s not just you,” John replied under his breath.

Mycroft stalked over to Sherlock, evidently out of patience. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

“Why the _hell_ did I let you get my flat cleaned?” Sherlock repeated, leaning over to reach the mantelpiece and running his hands along the bottom of the mirror, before he climbed onto the opposite chair and started pulling more books off their shelves. “It’s bad enough when John and Mrs. Hudson take it upon themselves to clean things. It’s worse with professionals. There’s no dust. Everything important is gone with it. You can put back anything but dust. Dust is eloquent.”

“Sherlock, what are you talking about?” demanded Lestrade, looking utterly bewildered. “What are you _doing_?”

“We’re being watched,” Sherlock said, without looking at any of them. He traced the spines of books with his fingertips.

Mycroft frowned and started to prowl around the room, while John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson simply gaped at Sherlock.

“How do you know that?” asked John slowly.

“Because this is Moriarty we’re talking about,” Sherlock snapped impatiently. “Because he readily admitted to having me watched and followed, and to bribing and threatening the people Mycroft so _kindly_ sent in here to take care of our shattered windows—so of _course_ we’re being watched. That’s why we needed to get back to Baker Street. If he can threaten those people, he can buy them, too. I’m sure in the cleanup it wouldn’t be too hard to hide something small. Then he wouldn’t even need to waste the manpower stalking my every move. He could just listen to me tell him exactly where I intend to go and what I intend to d—“

He stopped abruptly, and drew his hand back from the bookshelf with a tiny object held between his forefinger and thumb.

A camera.

Lestrade swore.

“Oh my God,” said John, dropping into a chair. “I was hoping you’d be wrong for once. I was really hoping you’d be wrong.”

Mrs. Hudson squeaked, “But—cameras? Here?! I’m in my nightie!” and bustled out of the room and back downstairs.

Sherlock, still standing on the chair, dropped the camera on the floor. It hit the carpet with a few tiny bounces, and then Sherlock jumped off the chair, landing on his feet exactly on top of the camera. There was a small crunch under his heel.

“That’s how he anticipated it all so perfectly,” said Sherlock, grinding his shoe down on the broken bits of plastic and glass. “He convinced one of the workers repairing the flat to plant a camera so he could watch us. He knew when I left this morning, he knew where John would be in the flat, he knew what I’d done before going to the pool to meet him. He knew Lestrade would be here. He knew Mycroft would turn up at the pool.”

“But to what end?” pressed Mycroft frustratedly. “Why meet you at the pool at all? Why go to all of this trouble for you, if not to get rid of you.”

“To get my attention.”

“ _Why_.”

“Because,” said John, realizing that Sherlock couldn’t seem to bring himself to say it, “Moriarty can bring people back from the dead too.”

Lestrade and Mycroft stared at John, and simultaneously turned their heads to look at Sherlock, who averted his gaze.

“That’s – that’s not funny,” said Lestrade.

“Correct, Lestrade,” snapped Sherlock. “It’s not. There’s nothing funny about it.”

“But…” said Mycroft. “But that means…”

“It means he’s like me!” said Sherlock, voice escaping as a yell. John thought he’d probably been on the verge of yelling since they first arrived at the flat, but it was now—with the truth of it finally stated aloud—that it burst out of him. Sherlock whipped his head up to glare at them all. “Do you understand? He’s like me. Moriarty is just. Like. Me.”

Mycroft took a step back. “But that’s… Is that _possible_?”

“Possible?!” Sherlock let out a weird, strangled sort of laugh. “That’s not a question we can ask with this. With any of this. _I_ exist, ergo it must be possible for _him_ to exist, and be like me. Whether we are capable of believing it or not, Moriarty and I share the same Gift.”

“And you’re _sure_?”

“He gave us a demonstration,” said Sherlock, a hint of bitterness—of some kind of self-loathing—entering in his tone. “Zhi Zhu Yao. The dead man at the pool. Killed, resurrected, and killed again by Moriarty himself. He asked me to do it, and when I didn’t, he did it instead.”

“So there’s no doubt,” said Mycroft, in a way that said that doubt had been his last hope.

“No. None whatsoever.”

“So… So he kidnapped John and made a meeting necessary so he could…”

“So he could scare me? Embarrass me? Impress me?” Sherlock suggested, and he gestured vaguely. “Prove he is my equal?”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Of course he did. He and I know better than anyone that everyone and everything has a time to die. And isn’t that the entire point of our Gift—being able to decide when it is that time?” said Sherlock, and it almost looked as if saying ‘our Gift’ actually hurt.

“Your time, specifically. He wants to kill _you_ ,” said John quietly, because this, to him, mattered most.

Sherlock paced to the windows. “It would be very ambitious of him,” he said. But it didn’t sound anywhere near as confident as John needed it to be.

Silence stretched on for a moment, until Mycroft said, “If you and he have the same abilities, then you’ll be able to best anticipate his moves, as he has anticipated ours. So you tell me: how should the rest of us be of use?”

“You could _find him_ ,” said Sherlock forcefully. “You want to be of use? You find him. He can’t have just vanished into the night without a trace.”

“That seems to be one of his many talents,” said Mycroft, but then he sighed. “My people are still going over everything at the pool. We can evaluate whatever evidence we get from there, and try to formulate some kind of plan. Lestrade and I can coordinate our forces on that score—“ Mycroft glanced at Lestrade, who nodded, “—and try to identify a trail that we can follow to him, as long as you will agree to stay here.”

“Fine,” said Sherlock shortly.

Mycroft frowned, and looked at John. “You’re comfortable staying here?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on things,” said John. Remembering suddenly, he said to Sherlock, “Give me my gun. I’d rather have that on me now, if it’s all the same.”

Sherlock scowled and produced the gun—tucked against the small of his back—which he then set on John’s usual chair.

John picked it up, checked it over, and stowed it at his back. The sense of security it gave him was a lot more than it normally would have been.

Though Moriarty didn’t seem at all deterred by a gun aimed at his head.

… All right, having the gun wasn’t so comforting after all.

“Then it’s settled. We’ll be back in a few hours, once we’ve determined if Moriarty can be traced after leaving the pool,” said Mycroft. He looked sternly at Sherlock. “ _Stay here_.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.

Mycroft and Lestrade made their way to the door, with John following suit. Lestrade hurried down the stairs, but Mycroft paused, glancing back at Sherlock. “Keep an eye on him,” he said quietly to John, still watching his brother.

John pursed his lips, and nodded. Mycroft descended the stairs without another word, and John closed the door behind him.

Once the sounds of their footsteps had gone, John turned so he could lean against the door. He glanced at Sherlock, who still stood by the window, looking out at the street, arms crossed over his chest.

For someone who seemed fully against the idea of being ruled by emotions, Sherlock was certainly not handling them well now.

The difficult thing was, John wasn’t sure he knew how to help. Not this time. Not with this. What sort of reassurance or advice could he possibly give? When Moriarty—already terrifying enough in his power and skill—had just matched the only hidden advantage they had against him?

John bit his lip. Something told him there was even more to it that he’d missed. “Maybe Lestrade and Mycroft can find him,” he ventured.

“They won’t.” Sherlock’s tone was flat. “He’ll be long gone by now. I just wanted them to leave.”

After a moment, John crossed the living room halfway, closing the distance between them while still giving Sherlock some space. “There’s something else, isn’t there,” he said. “Something you’ve deduced about Moriarty that you didn’t tell Mycroft and Lestrade.” It wasn’t a question.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Talk to me,” John urged. “You haven’t calmed down at all since the pool. Actually, you’re way less calm, and frankly, I didn’t think that was possible. So talk to me. Tell me what I’m missing.”

Sherlock gestured hopelessly. “… I touched Yao’s body before I left the pool.”

“I know,” said John, not understanding the importance of it. “I saw you do it.”

“I touched Yao’s body and _nothing_ happened.”

John shook his head perplexedly. “All right, but…”

“I touched a body and nothing happened,” said Sherlock, panic creeping back into his voice. “Do you understand? _Nothing. Happened._ ”

“But…” said John again, and then he stopped.

Why _had_ nothing happened?

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair agitatedly, breathing fast. “If I touch a body that Moriarty has already brought back and made dead again, and nothing happens, then it seems as if our Gifts do intersect. So I’m willing to bet those he brings back can be made dead again by me, and those I bring back—“

“Can be made dead again by him,” John finished, suddenly feeling sick.

“You could have _died_ tonight,” said Sherlock. “Again. You almost died again, and I – I’m – it’s—“

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, trying to inject some amount of calm into the conversation even as he felt on the verge of panic himself. “Sherlock, you almost died too. Stop focusing on me. If what you’re saying is true, then at least now we know about how his Gift can affect yours. He doesn’t know, because you didn’t touch Yao when he asked you to. We can turn this into an advantage. Don’t panic just because we know in hindsight that Moriarty’s threat had merit. I was also wearing a bomb that could have killed both of us. There was also a sniper who could have killed both of us. There are so many things that could have resulted in both of us being dead, but we _aren’t_. We’re _alive_.”

“You don’t understand,” said Sherlock, half to himself and half to John.

“Then explain it to me.”

Sherlock started to pace around the room, so distressed that he couldn’t stay still. “The bomb was one thing. But if Moriarty had touched you, you would be dead, and there’s _nothing_ I can do about that.” He took a deep breath, and continued, “I’m not… prepared. I have no way to handle this kind of threat. I don’t have the means to shield you from someone with the same abilities as mine. I don’t have a plan.”

“Of course you don’t,” said John. “It’s barely been an hour. Of course you don’t have a plan. None of us have a plan. Not yet, anyway. I don’t expect you to have one right away. I’d be a little disturbed if you did. And even _if_ you did, I don’t expect you to have a plan that revolves around me.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes blazing. “I brought you back. I let you get involved. I am responsible for you.”

“But I want to be here,” John insisted. “I want to be involved. This is where I want to be.”

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Which you already knew.”

“I underestimated how stupid you are.”

John rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re the champion of objectivity. Don’t start telling me to be more worried. We don’t need to panic, not yet.”

“Oh? What do you suggest we do?” asked Sherlock, equal parts condescending and genuinely curious.

John shrugged. “We can work this out. Mycroft and Lestrade can start searching, and you and I can start thinking about our next moves. I’ll make some tea, and we can talk this through.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he glanced in the direction of the kitchen.

“All right?” John prompted. “You’re still running on adrenaline. You’re going to need time to wrap your head around all of this. It’s a lot to take in. Moriarty is a lot to take in. Tea will help. Planning will help. And we can do some of that together, okay?”

Sherlock made a jerking motion with his head that John chose to interpret as a nod of agreement.

“Good. I’ll put the kettle on.” John quickly made his way to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. He dug out mugs and a couple teabags from the cabinets, maintaining a somewhat forced façade of nonchalance.

After a moment, he realized he could feel Sherlock watching him, and he turned his head to look over his shoulder, opening his mouth to say something benign and vaguely reassuring. But he stopped.

Sherlock was looking at him with an expression on his face that John had never seen him make before. It was the kind of expression John associated with Afghanistan, the sort of look you might see on a person’s face in the moment that person realized everything was about to go wrong. A look that said they knew they had seconds to make a choice, and if they made the wrong one, people would die. It was a panicked desperation, but also some kind of resolve, and to John, it felt like something in the air had snapped the moment he turned around.

Sherlock broke eye contact and darted up the stairs to John’s room without a word.

“Sherlock?” said John in confusion, starting after him. He could hear Sherlock moving around on the floor above, opening and closing doors with muffled thuds. “Sherlock?” he called again, but there still wasn’t an answer or even a pause in the noise.

John hurriedly switched the kettle off and rushed to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached his bedroom door. “What was that about—“

Sherlock had hauled John’s duffel bag—the one that had contained all of his belongings when he was just a body in the morgue at Bart’s—out of the closet and onto the bed, where he was shoving everything John owned into it. His uniform, his clothes, and his few personal belongings were all being crammed into the bag without preamble or consideration. The assorted fake IDs that Mycroft had made for him had been dragged out and set on the bed.

“What the hell are you doing?” John demanded, watching all of his things vanish into the bag, and he started forward with the intention of taking the bag away.

“You have to leave,” said Sherlock flatly, without looking at him.

John stopped dead. “… I’m sorry, what?”

“You have to leave,” Sherlock repeated. “You can’t stay here anymore. You’re leaving Baker Street.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ARE YOU KIDDING ME  
> I MIGHT PUNCH YOU IF IT WOULDN'T KILL ME, SHERLOCK
> 
> ~
> 
> So glad Sherlock and John get to transition from one stressful situation right into another stressful situation...  
> No rest for anyone ever
> 
> Well. So we should have a decent idea of how much overlap Moriarty's and Sherlock's powers have -- and the answer, as it so happens, is rather a lot. Anyone Sherlock brings back can be made dead again, forever, by Moriarty; and vice versa. It's a very level playing field here. Which probably accounts for about 50% of Sherlock freaking out (with the other 50% easily attributed to the fact that this is a problem that exists at all).  
> Obviously in Pushing Daisies there was never a criminal or villain or anyone who had the same abilities as Ned (but HAHA can you imagine), so we are officially in uncharted waters in that respect. 
> 
> Sorry for the unexpectedly long delay in getting this chapter posted. It was the end of the semester, then Christmas, then travel, then start of the semester, then research, then sad personal things, then catching up on work afterwards -- so needless to say 2017 has been way too busy so far and I need it to chill  
> But anyway, we are back on track, so sorry again for the unexpected hiatus and with any luck at all it won't happen again :P
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, and for all the comments and feedback! It means a lot :D <3  
> See you soon (I promise!) with the next update!


	36. Hold On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE BACK, BABY  
> and back to our previously scheduled freakout

That was it.

 _You’re leaving Baker Street_.

Four little words, and John stopped trying to be calm.

John hurried past Sherlock to the far side of the bed, and grabbed one of his pillows, and then he drew his arm back and hurled the pillow at Sherlock’s head. It smacked the Detective with enough force to knock him back a few steps—enough time for John to seize the duffel bag and drag it to his side of the bed, firmly pulling everything out again and dumping it on the floor. “No.”

Sherlock pursed his lips and held a hand out, insistently, for the bag. “I’m not debating this with you. You have to go.”

“No.” John shoved all of his things under the bed with his feet, refusing to surrender the duffel.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t a joke, John. Stop it.”

“No.”

“John!”

“No!”

Sherlock leaned across the bed and snatched at the bag, but John stepped back out of the way. He then dropped the bag on the floor and shoved that under the bed as well, so everything he owned was now in a heap, on the floor and under the bed, thoroughly out of Sherlock’s reach.

Sherlock let out a frustrated noise. “You can’t be this ridiculous!” he said. “You’re leaving, now.”

Without missing a beat, John snatched the other pillow up from the bed and held it threateningly, poised to hurl it. “So help me _God_ , Sherlock, if you don’t get the _fuck_ out of my room, I’m going to—“

Sherlock cut him off. “To what? Chucking a pillow at me is hardly a persuasive argument. I’ll kick you out if I have to. Technically, you have no legal rights here. You’re not an official tenant, you never signed a lease, you don’t pay rent—“

“What the fuck would I pay it with?! I’ve got a decent life insurance plan if you want to figure out how to tap into that.”

“This isn’t actually about rent.”

John rolled his eyes, and said, “I know it’s not. I may be an idiot, but I’m not _stupid_. And neither are you. You know perfectly well you can’t just send me away because you’re panicking. Come on, Sherlock—you can’t just touch someone’s life and be done with it!”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Yes I can. That’s what I do. That’s what I’ve always done.”

John sighed, and persisted, “When you decided to let me stay alive, it was _for this case_. You can’t tell me I’m not allowed to be here for this case now. It’s a couple months too late for that.”

“Didn’t you learn anything from what happened tonight?” Sherlock demanded. “You were abducted, from this flat, by someone who can and will kill you if given another opportunity—who _already_ killed you once before—and staying here is just tempting fate. You can’t stay here. Not when it just means you’re at risk when you don’t need to be.”

John understood that Sherlock was trying to get him to leave for sentimental reasons. It wasn’t malicious. John just had no intention of cooperating. He lowered the pillow slightly. “But didn’t I _just_ tell you? I’m not worried about all of that. I don’t care if there’s a risk. Whatever danger I’m in is danger I’ve acknowledged and accepted.”

“That’s all very cavalier now,” said Sherlock. “But I don’t think you understand how much danger this really is.”

“You’re in more danger than I am, I reckon,” John argued. “Moriarty wants you dead. Eventually, anyway. He’s out to manipulate and then kill you—and even if he’s not the first criminal mastermind you’ve gone up against, he’s the first one who’s known about what you can do. Never mind he can do it too.”

“Me being in danger doesn’t negate you being in danger.”

“I know,” said John. “But that’s the kind of argument you’d typically use.”

Sherlock scowled. “Don’t cast me in a sentimental light. I’m speaking from an objectively reasonable standpoint.”

John shifted his grip on his pillow—still poised to hurl it at Sherlock if he made a move for the things under the bed—and shook his head. “One, I don’t believe you. And two, even if that were true, I’m not you. I don’t give a toss about being objectively reasonable if it means giving up now. And I understand you don’t like that. But these four walls and the things within them are the only things in the entire world that I have any claim to, and I’ll be damned if I let you change that without a bloody good reason.”

“Death threats from a psychopath with magical powers aren’t a good reason to you?” Sherlock persisted.

John gave Sherlock a pointed look. “You think I’m going to let you sideline me because things got bad? Look, I hate to be an ass about it, but I’m a soldier. I don’t back down when it gets bad.”

“Aren’t people in the military supposed to be good at following orders?” asked Sherlock exasperatedly.

To Sherlock’s obvious and immense agitation, John smirked a little at that. “Sure. But you’re not my commanding officer. And I’m technically ex-military now. And I also don’t give a damn.”

“About dying?” said Sherlock.

John squared his shoulders. “I’m already dead. Have been dead, I mean. People die in war.”

“This isn’t a war.”

“Isn’t it?”

“It’s not _your_ war.”

“ _Isn’t it_?”

Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration. “You keep talking in circles without considering anything seriously. This is life and death we’re talking about. Your life.”

“Exactly. It’s my life!” said John. “You gave it to me, sure, but it’s _my_ life now. I’m going to fight for it. I won’t give this up. I won’t lose this.”

Sherlock gestured desperately around the room. “This? ‘This’ meaning living in hiding in a flat with a sociopath who might inadvertently kill you with a single, passing, careless movement, all the while knowing that there is a psychopath toying with killing you. With everyone and everything you had before replaced by _this_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” said John forcefully, like every ounce of his being was being poured into that one word.

Sherlock’s arguments were from all sorts of angles. ‘You can’t help’, ‘you shouldn’t help’, ‘I don’t need your help’, ‘I don’t want your help’.

To which John’s response was invariably some iteration of ‘I don’t care’.

Though of course, in this instance, ‘I don’t care’ really meant ‘I care very much, and possibly more than I care about anything else’.

Sherlock turned his back on John, pacing the length of the room a few times, and after a moment, John dropped the pillow he was holding back onto the bed. 

At last Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned to face John again. “I wouldn’t think less of you,” he said.

John blinked, caught off-guard by the change in tone and argument. “Sorry?”

“I’m asking you to go as a… friend,” said Sherlock, hesitating before the last word as if unsure whether he was allowed to use it. When John doesn’t object, he continues, “I know you have your pride and your history and there’s a sense of responsibility to it all. I know you feel committed to this. To me. To helping me. And you’re the sort of person who doesn’t take that kind of commitment lightly. Obviously.”

John nodded, but didn’t interrupt.

“So I’m just saying… if your reasons for staying are because you feel obligated, or because you’re doing what you do and worrying about everyone else involved without any reasonable consideration for self-preservation, I wouldn’t think any less of you if you just – stayed away.”

John shrugged slightly. “I’d think less of me.”

“So this is a matter of pride to you?”

“No, not really,” said John, not sure how to explain. “I just… I know that this is where I’m supposed to be. What’s the point in having a second life if I don’t fight for it? However much time I get this time around, I want to spend it doing something meaningful. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.”

Sherlock let out a long sigh, his shoulders drooping a little in a defeated kind of way. The determination of a moment ago and the anxiety of the last hour or so was visibly draining from his body, like the fire sustaining both had just gone out. He looked tired, and resigned, and almost fragile in a way that John found more worrying, in a way, than anything else. “You really are too much of a soldier sometimes.”

John smiled a bit. “Doctor first. The soldier comes out when I need it.”

“Good to know arguing with me requires the same mental fortitude as invading Afghanistan,” Sherlock grumbled.

John smiled a little more. “So are you done trying to get rid of me now?” he asked after a moment.

“Clearly you’re not going to do it without being physically evicted from the building, and since I can’t do that myself, then yes, I suppose so,” said Sherlock, with a small scowl.

“Good. I don’t want to fight with you. Especially not after you confronted Moriarty because of me.”

Sherlock nodded grudgingly.

“Then how about we go back downstairs?” John suggested. Standing in his bedroom in defense of his personal belongings was making it difficult to unwind, and he had a feeling Sherlock was in a similar place too. “I was serious about making tea, before you went mental on me.”

“Everything comes back to tea with you,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes, but then he turned and trudged out of the room and down the stairs—and after a pause, John followed suit, stopping only to set his gun in its usual drawer in his bedside table.

When John reached the kitchen, Sherlock was already seated at the table, looking disinterestedly at his phone. John wordlessly resumed making tea, and for a while a silence stretched between them, interrupted only by the occasional tapping of Sherlock’s fingers on the screen of his mobile. The silence was a nondescript one—neither awkward nor amiable—but it ended, finally, as John set a fresh cup of tea down on the kitchen table in front of Sherlock.

It felt, just a little bit, like a peace offering.

Sherlock took it.

“Can I ask you something?” asked John, picking up his own cup of tea, more for the warmth than anything else. “Something kind of personal. And also with the expectation that me bringing it up is not going to restart the debate about me leaving. Because that’s not happening.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a sip of tea. “Fine.”

“Are you… scared? Of Moriarty?”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to his cup, and he stared into it for a moment. At last, he said, “I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t. Especially now that we know exactly what he’s capable of.”

John nodded. It was a yes, just not in so many words. But he could see the significance in Sherlock admitting to it. If he was willing to concede that much, then maybe they were on the same page again.

And there was something both deeply unsettling and strangely comforting in knowing that he wasn’t the only one in the room who would be lying if he said he hadn’t been afraid tonight. If he said he wasn’t afraid now.

“My turn for the personal questions,” said Sherlock, still looking at his tea. He set the cup down on the table. “Are you scared of me?”

John blinked, and frowned, not expecting the question. “What? No. Why?”

Sherlock looked at John, and offered a weary little shrug. “Let’s just say tonight put a lot of things into perspective, for me. What my – Gift is like for those not in control of it, namely.”

“Admittedly, it can be a little stressful to be around at times,” said John. “You’re reckless, and sometimes you forget that the rest of us don’t know everything you know. But, I mean… I’m scared of Moriarty. I’m not scared of you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in what might, under better circumstances, have resulted in a smile. “That’s your obsession with morals talking again.”

“Kind of?” said John. “He’s a psychopath. You’re not. Big difference.”

“To you.”

“To everyone, I think. For one, I don’t think you’d strap a bomb to someone for dramatic effect.”

Sherlock snorted. “Granted. There are a lot of things I might do for dramatic effect, but even I think that might be a little over the top.”

“That sort of thing matters.”

“I suppose.” Sherlock ruffled his hair and added, a little hesitatingly, “I… appreciate the vote of confidence. And everything you did tonight. It didn’t go unnoticed.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said John confusedly. “I stood there? With a bomb? I don’t see the significance of that as a gesture of confidence.”

Sherlock gave John a withering look. “Standing up to Moriarty. Trying to get me to leave right before Yao died. Being on my side after everything we’ve been through tonight? Would you like me to write up a list of your commendable actions?”

John shrugged. “Those were just things. I’d do any of them again.”

“They were things, yes,” said Sherlock. “But they were things that meant something.”

John smiled a little. “You know,” he said, “for someone who hates having feelings as much as you do, you have a weird habit of saying really nice things when it’s least expected.”

“I do not.”

“You do. So, thanks. I might even hug you, if it wouldn’t kill me,” John teased.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I’ll live without one, somehow.”

After a moment, John asked, “Are you going to be okay?”

“What do you mean by that?” Sherlock frowned.

“This is a lot to take in. Everything with Moriarty. Yesterday the only person who could bring the dead back to life was you. Today there are two of you, and the other one really, _really_ wants to kill you. Are you going to be okay?”

Sherlock rubbed his temples with one hand, while the other traced one finger around the rim of his mug. “That’s a loaded question.”

“No shit. But still.”

“Maybe it was foolish of me—well, clearly, it _was_ foolish of me—to assume that I was the only one who could do this. But really, the statistical odds of their being two people with this kind of ability is low enough, I’d imagine—so low that I never thought it was possible for there to be two, and even if there was, we’d probably never meet—but for there to be two living this close in the same time and with professions that enable them to interact…” It shouldn’t be possible, statistically; but Fate had a habit of not caring about what was supposed to be possible. Fate did what it wanted.

“I was thinking more about the emotional implications than the mathematical ones,” said John.

Sherlock made a face. “I know. The math is just easier to talk about.”

“For you.”

“Very funny.” Sherlock sighed, and continued, “This isn’t something I ever planned for. And it makes taking Moriarty down much harder than it was to begin with. But more than that, I have to reevaluate so much of what I thought I knew about how my Gift works.” He rubbed his eyes. “Plus death is not an obstacle for him when it comes to getting information or assistance. And I am inclined to think, based on the events of the last few hours, that he is less concerned about the sixty-second rule than I am.”

It wasn’t at all difficult for John to recall the giddy look on Moriarty’s face when the sixty-second rule had come into play with Yao. “I think you’re right.”

“Moriarty’s view of my – of _our_ Gift, is different from mine. It excites him. Death excites him. Intrigues him. And his… _obsession_ with death, with the risk, makes him even more dangerous.”

“It’s not like he wasn’t dangerous to begin with,” said John.

“You and I both know the stakes are very much different now,” Sherlock replied. “And higher.”

John finished his tea before he said anything, eyes on his cup. “I promise, Sherlock, I will not be a disadvantage, or an inconvenience.”

“I’m not saying you would be.”

“I just don’t want you _thinking_ I would be, either.”

“I’m not,” said Sherlock. “You’re an exception to most Rules. Including the one that would normally classify you as a liability above anything else.”

John’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Such a _weird_ compliment.”

Sherlock smirked, a little, and rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”

“It’s good.” John sighed, and then the sigh turned into a yawn. It was almost four in the morning, and a cup of caffeinated black tea wasn’t enough to counteract the bone-deep exhaustion that followed being abducted, held hostage, and almost killed for the second time in less than fifteen weeks. “Think you’ll be able to sleep?” he asked.

Sherlock hesitated, then inclined his head. “Probably should try.”

John set his empty mug down in the sink. “We’ve got a lot to talk about tomorrow.”

“Yes?” Sherlock ventured tentatively. “That’s… sort of obvious.”

“No, I mean…” John turned around again to look at Sherlock pointedly. “ _We’ve_ got a lot to talk about tomorrow. _We_. Not just you. If I wake up in the morning and find you’ve vanished into thin air, or gone and gotten yourself killed, or somehow smuggled me out of the country in my sleep, or—“

Sherlock held up a hand to cut him off. “None of those options would be all that difficult given the proper planning. But… I’ll be here.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, yes,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes again.

John paused, and nodded. “Good. I’m holding you to it.” A thought occurred to him, and he added (suddenly more anxious), “Is it – you know, _safe_ for us to go sleep?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “No? But then again, I don’t think Moriarty wants me dead _quite_ this quickly. Two hours is hardly enough time for the tension to really start to build.”

“… Are you making fun of me?”

“Only a little.” Sherlock got to his feet. “I do think we’re fine for tonight. We can decide what to do after that, but for now, even consulting criminals pause the appropriate length of time for full dramatic effect.”

“Okay.” John decided to trust that that was true, if only just to save himself a little bit of stress. There was enough already. “I’ll text Mycroft and Lestrade to meet us in a few hours, after we’ve all gotten a little rest.”

Sherlock inclined his head. “All right. Do that, and then sleep. Maybe this will seem better when we’re rested.”

“You think?”

“No. In fact, I think it’ll be worse when we’re focused and awake enough to appreciate all the dangers and nuances. But let’s be positive.”

John rubbed his eyes and laughed, albeit a little nervously. “Let’s be positive,” he agreed. “At least until breakfast. For now, neither of us is dead, and we’re back home where we belong. That’s enough for now.” He made his way out of the kitchen to the foot of the stairs leading up to his bedroom. “You sleep too, okay? I think you need it.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, though he was just as drained by the events of the last several hours as John was. But as John put his foot on the first stair, he hesitated. “John?”

John stopped and turned to look over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“It really means that much to you? To stay – here... with me, for this case,” said Sherlock uncertainly.

John nodded. “It does.”

“You care that much?”

“Yes.”

“… Why?” Sherlock asked. “Why care so much? Why do – why do _people_ care so much, if it just means having more to lose?”

“Why?” John smiled, and shrugged. “Because we _can_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly Sherlock if you thought it was going to be easy to get rid of John I’m SO sorry but you were sorely mistaken
> 
> ~
> 
> A thousand apologies for the delay getting this chapter posted, as for a week I was entrenched in research, and the week before that I was organizing a research exhibition for my geology department, and before that I was doing research in the Bahamas on an island without a phone, computer, or access to wifi… but I did have a lot of fun and get very sunburned and I was chased across a coral reef by a barracuda so there’s that  
> In any case, we carry on! Hoping to get lots of writing done in the next couple weeks, since I have my candidacy exams in May (which is kind of like your midway qualifiers for your PhD, for those who don't subject themselves to a lifetime of being in school XD) and will be in geoscience+astrobiology hell for most of that month. No schedule promises, for that reason, but I can say I have several chapters in various stages of completion and they'll be up as quickly as I can spare five minutes for fun-writing rather than work-writing. ;D
> 
> Anyway, this chapter was EMOTIONAL SHERLOCK EVERYWHERE  
> Quite a few Pushing Daisies references in this one. That last little conversation in particular is based on one of my favorite exchanges from Pushing Daisies so I couldn’t help but incorporate it
> 
> And finally: I’ve at last determined that there will likely be 50 chapters total to this story (if I could write it forever, I would, but all good things must come to an end at some point…). I haven’t marked that officially on the chapter count just in case, but once I’ve solidified my outline I may do so. Which means we’re 72% of the way through this story as of this update!!  
> … god help me is that all i’ve gotten thru after 2.5 years 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Your feedback means the world to me <3


	37. Tracking a Tiger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK, BABY

“Let’s go through what we know again.”

“Sherlock, can’t we do that _after_ we’ve finished eating dinner?”

“I was finished ten minutes ago.”

“Because, like an idiot, you ate an entire package of ginger nuts about two minutes after I called to order takeaway. You can run through things again while I’m eating.”

Sherlock and John were seated on either side of the kitchen table with an assemblage of takeaway Chinese boxes on the table between them. Sherlock pushed a few containers of food to the side and repositioned his closed laptop in the center of the table once again, opening it up and refreshing his blog. No messages, which wasn’t a surprise. He checked his phone, and found a matching lack of texts. “I don’t know why I keep suggesting we go through things when there are no things left that we haven’t already discussed a dozen times.”

John looked up from his takeaway with a mildly disappointed expression on his face. “Optimism, I suppose. Or desperation. No word from Mycroft?” he said.

“No.”

“Greg?”

“Who?”

“Oh my _God_ , Sherlock, for the hundredth time— _Lestrade._ Detective Inspector _Greg_ Lestrade.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and nodded at his phone and computer. “No, nothing from Mycroft or ‘ _Greg_ ’. Nothing at all for days.”

This was not (strictly speaking) entirely accurate. In the six days that had passed since their meeting with Moriarty at the pool, Sherlock and John had gotten at least one call or visit each day from both Mycroft and Lestrade. The meetings and calls were not particularly productive, or long, but they were now a regular daily occurrence. These check-ins were on the pretext of keeping everyone up-to-date on developments—but after the first few days when there were no developments on any of the half-dozen occasions he received a call or visit, Sherlock caught on. That, and when he mentioned how weirdly involved Mycroft and Lestrade were being, John’s ears had turned bright red and he’d said something wholly unconvincing about texts being too tedious to type out all the time.

Sherlock let it go at that. For perhaps the first time in his life, he didn’t entirely object to the idea of people wanting to make sure he was all right. Especially when he genuinely wasn’t sure himself.

In any case, there really was no news. Mycroft and Lestrade and their miniature army of subordinates had combed every inch of the pool—and the rest of the sport complex, for good measure—for any indication as to where Moriarty had gone. But, unsurprisingly, there was nothing. A ghost would probably have left more for them to go on. Moriarty might as well have never been there. The security cameras throughout the entire building had been turned off since an hour before John had been abducted. There was no trace of Moriarty in the building, or his sniper, for that matter.

So for six days, they had all mulled over old information, conjectured aimlessly about next steps, and waited for the other shoe to drop.

But there were no metaphorical shoes to be found, and no new leads to follow.

“So, again… we have nothing to go on.” John stood, and closed up his boxes of takeaway. Sherlock slid what was left of his takeaway across the table towards John, and John dug around in one of the kitchen drawers for cling film.

“It’s not that we have nothing to go on,” said Sherlock, scrolling through pointless messages on his phone. “We just… have no obvious trails to follow.”

“We’ve got nothing,” said John flatly.

Sherlock sighed. “Admittedly very little. No physical evidence from the scene, no idea where Moriarty went, and no contacts within his organization who are not permanently dead.”

“Or trying to kill us.”

“Or possibly both,” said Sherlock. “I might argue that the biggest problem we have right now is that we have no insight as to the state of the network. The only ones who might know where to look for Moriarty are people who are dead or want us dead. A lot.” He paused and looked at John over the top of the laptop. “Are you _sure_ you wouldn’t be better off staying somewhere else, at least for the time being?” It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested this to John since their argument six days earlier, and even though John had refused outright every time, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from checking. Repeatedly. “Lestrade’s, maybe?”

John didn’t reply right away. Instead he held up a sheet of cling-film, looking at Sherlock critically through the plastic. “Hm.”

“What?” said Sherlock, frowning.

“Do you think,” said John blithely, “if your face was covered in plastic wrap, I could punch you without dying?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “All right, all right, I get it.”

“Good,” said John firmly, and he lowered the plastic to resume packing away their leftovers. “You were saying?”

“I was just saying—the sniper is our easiest link to finding out more about Moriarty, but the odds of finding them are equally slim,” said Sherlock. “And, considering we now know Moriarty can bring people back from the dead, we can’t rule out the possibility that Moriarty’s sniper is someone who already died.”

John rubbed his eyes. “Great. So it could be anyone who’s ever had military sniper training.”

“I think we might be able to limit it to anyone who has ever had military sniper training in Moriarty’s lifetime. But yes. That about sums it up.”

“Though,” John ventured, “I bet that, whenever Moriarty decides it’s time to kill you, he’ll use the sniper. He always sends the bloody sniper. So if we catch him… maybe he’ll have a harder time killing you?”

“That’s so… pointlessly optimistic,” said Sherlock.

John scowled.

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “Look, I just think whenever Moriarty decides it’s time to kill me, he’ll find a more original way to do it than just deploying his sniper like for everyone else.”

“You sure that’s not just your massive ego talking?”

“Rude.”

“But justified.”

“It makes _sense_ , doesn’t it?” Sherlock said. “If he went through all the trouble of setting up that meeting at the pool—with messages and puzzles and all of that build-up—he has to have more in mind than ordering someone else to put a bullet in my brain from two hundred yards away. He might decide to get rid of _you_ that way at any moment—hence my concern. But I doubt that’s his endgame when it comes to dealing with me. It’s too simple. Too boring. And he doesn’t do boring if he doesn’t have to.”

“I guess,” said John, a little grudgingly. “That would make things too easy. And that means the sniper is useful only in terms of information, not for actually foiling any sort of attempt on your life.”

“Basically.” Sherlock aimlessly refreshed his blog again, and scowled at the lack of messages.

“That said, I still think we don’t have any other worthwhile ideas,” said John. “Even if finding the sniper isn’t definitely going to keep you alive, we still have to find the sniper if we’re going to learn anything really meaningful about Moriarty or his whereabouts _before_ he decides it’s time to kill you. So we have to try whatever leads we can find that aren’t pointless from the start.”

“Probably. But, like we’ve been saying over and over for weeks now, finding the sniper is going to be like trying to track a tiger,” said Sherlock.

“As in, we shouldn’t do it?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of it being ill-advised, slow, and dangerous work. But your summary is also fine.”

“Here’s the real question, though,” said John, tapping the kitchen table with his index finger. “We never found Moriarty in all this time. He always found _us_ , not the other way around—and we don’t even know how to find him now, when we know his name and his appearance and a bit about his history. So how is finding the sniper going to be _any_ easier than finding Moriarty, if we’ve been looking for them for the last two months and literally the only thing we know about them is that they are responsible for killing Shan, the Spider, and me?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” said Sherlock glumly. “None whatsoever. We know of only a handful of people who are or have been connected to Moriarty. And honestly, I don’t know that any of his living ‘employees’ would be willing to work with us anyway. Moriarty seems very – possessive, when it comes to his people.”

John bit his lip. His limited interactions with Moriarty—both through the earpiece and in person at the pool—had given John the lasting impression that Moriarty didn’t invest in people he didn’t think he could own, with enough persuasion. In another life, John might even have been one of them.

 _You could have been mine_ , he’d said.

 John shook his head, also trying to shake off the sense of unease that crept up on him every time he thought too much about Moriarty, and said, “He does seem to pride himself on having a huge network that’s hidden from view and kept strictly in line.”

“Obviously. That’s why he cut Gruner loose when he did,” said Sherlock with a nod. “He got too bold and too greedy. You stick to Moriarty’s missive, or he gets rid of you, at your expense. He keeps a handle on everyone who works with by monopolizing on their greed or their fear. It’s a bit Machiavellian, but that contributes to how it works so well. You control less intelligent people by manipulating them along the lines of their own self-interest.”

John looked up from stowing leftovers in the fridge long enough to make a face.  “I get that much. Could Gruner help?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe? I doubt Moriarty would have cut Gruner loose if he thought he had anything of value to share. The Black Lotus likely know a lot more, but they’re also much more afraid. And have a lot more to lose if Moriarty’s organization is exposed.” He sighed. “We just keep talking in circles. At the end of the day, we have no leads on where to find either of our two persons-of-interest, and we have exhausted the knowledge of our existing informants. We can talk about needing to do this and needing to do that until we’re blue in the face, but barring some major, unforeseen upheaval among the people within Moriarty’s network, we’re stuck.”

“And I’m going to guess from your tone that some major, unforeseen upheaval isn’t exactly likely.”

“How likely is it that any of a number of small-scale, terrified criminals are going to betray the Devil?”

John sighed. “Probably not even remotely likely at all.”

Sherlock nodded. But before he could reply, the doorbell rang—short, loud, and wholly unexpected.

Sherlock and John looked at one another.

“Single ring,” said John.

“Maximum pressure just under the half second,” Sherlock elaborated.

“Lestrade?”

“At this hour? Bit late for him. No, that was a client ring. Someone who needs something. Pressure and brevity hints at urgency and unease. But it’s as odd an hour for clients. And Mycroft or Lestrade would have texted if they were planning to stop in. You don’t think…?” Sherlock got up and paced to the window, looking out to try to catch a glimpse of whoever was at the front steps. It wasn’t as if he expected Moriarty or the sniper to be on their doorstep—or ringing the bell, for that matter—but something about an unexpected visitor at this time of day just didn’t sit right.

He stood for a few seconds with his face almost pressed against the glass, but he couldn’t see whoever it was.

Behind him, however, John quickly got to his feet, picked up his gun, stowed it in the waistband of his jeans, and rushed to the stairs.

Sherlock hurried after him, hissing urgently, “What are you doing?”

“You don’t want Mrs. Hudson to open the door if there’s a chance it’s anyone _other_ than a client, do you?” John demanded.

Sherlock blinked, and then he too hastened down the stairs.

At the bottom, Mrs. Hudson was just getting to the door, but John intervened, ushering her back to her apartment with a gentle but insistent slew of reassurances that he would take care of it.

Sherlock bypassed both of them, and stepped to the front door. He paused, listening for a few seconds for noises outside as John and Mrs. Hudson moved to the landlady’s apartment, and then he opened the door decisively.

On the front step was a woman.

She inclined her head slightly, long hair falling forward over her shoulders to frame her face. “Mr. Holmes,” she said, by way of greeting.

Sherlock paused, and looked the woman up and down. She was slight, fairly young, and of Chinese descent. Born in China, Sherlock thought, judging by her accent. Her face was devoid of any blatant emotion, but her body language was immediately interesting. The concave bend in her shoulders and the slightly lowered chin suggested anxiety, while her hands clasped tightly in front of her and her constant eye contact hinted at determination. Soft lines in her face, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t actively looking for them, indicated that she’d had more than her fair share of strain in her lifetime—a life full of difficulties, even though she was young. No ring meant most likely not married. Something about her made Sherlock think that, more specifically, she was single with no children. She was dressed in a long silk dress, with a dark overcoat wrapped around her shoulders. Delicate fingers with immaculate fingernails, and yet old callouses all over her hands. So, she’d done hard work and lived rough, but much less so in the last… two years? Artist? No—but someone who works with art? Thoughtful and artistic appearance, but not as eclectic as he might expect an artist to be, and none of the telltale finger calluses that artists and writers had holding the tools of their trade. Art historian, maybe. Bit of a deductive leap, but Sherlock was inclined to think he wasn’t wrong in making it.

And she was—unless he was very mistaken—a member of the Black Lotus.

All of this passed through the Detective’s mind in the span of a second; out loud, he said, “Can I help you?”

In reply, the woman bent so she could take off her right shoe, and she turned slightly on the spot, raising her foot and resting it on her opposite knee so Sherlock could see the bottom of her foot.

Sure enough, on the underside of her heel was a black lotus tattoo.

After a moment, she replaced her shoe and straightened. “I am here because I hope I can help _you_.”

This was not the response Sherlock had been expecting.

“Providing help is… usually _my_ job,” he said slowly.

The woman shifted again, and glanced uneasily over her shoulder. “It is unwise to linger in the open. May we speak inside?”

Sherlock hesitated. He leaned out the door a fraction to peer left and right down the street, and then he looked over his shoulder at John, who had just rejoined him and was standing in the hallway. He turned back to the woman, sighed, and stepped aside, ushering her over the threshold.

She hurried inside, and Sherlock shut the door after her.

“We can talk in my rooms,” said Sherlock, gesturing to the stairs, and the woman took a few steps in that direction.

John looked the woman up and down, frowning slightly. He looked questioningly at Sherlock.

“Black Lotus,” Sherlock mouthed silently at John behind the woman’s back.

John’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.

Mrs. Hudson intrepidly poked her head out of her own apartment, looking down the hall at the three of them. “Everything all right?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock simply, though he wasn’t entirely sure how true that was. “Just a client.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson stepped fully into view and joined them in the entryway. She gave the woman a reassuring smile. “Here, dear, you can hang your coat by the door, if you like…”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught an amused and exasperated look on John’s face. He was sure his own expression was more or less the same. Admittedly, their landlady didn’t know most of the details of their interactions with Moriarty or the Black Lotus, and she had no idea that this ‘client’ was affiliated with them—but there was a kind of bewildering bravado to her willingness to go along with any visitor at any hour of the day in spite of the fact that, in the past six weeks, three days, nineteen hours, and forty-seven minutes, her set of flats had been blown up once and her two tenants had each been abducted (on two separate occasions, one of which had been directly from the building).

After a few minutes of fussing, the visitor’s coat was hung next to the front door, tea had been politely refused, and Sherlock, John, and the woman from the Black Lotus had moved up to the flat. John was the last one in, and he closed the door most of the way. Sherlock crossed straight to the windows and peered out at the street, checking to see if it was still empty; when it was, he pulled the curtains shut over the windows.

John pulled out one of the chairs from the living room table, and placed it in the middle of the room. He gestured, and the woman sat down tentatively and watched as Sherlock drew each of the curtains.

There was an expectant silence.

At last, the curtains were all drawn, and Sherlock turned back to face the room. He moved a few steps forward, and sat in his usual chair by the window. John sat in the chair opposite.

“So…” said Sherlock slowly, not sure how to start. “Considering who you work for, I hope you understand why I’m a little – surprised, that you’re here right now. Unless you’re here to deliver a message, in which case I’m not sure why all the secrecy.”

The woman folded her hands in her lap. “We watch your door in turns most nights. A different member of the Tong is sent to observe your movements each time. Tonight it is my turn, which is how I know that it is safe for me to be here.” She paused, and corrected herself. “Or, at least, safe enough.”

“You said you wanted to help me.”

“I do,” said their visitor. “I want to. I hope you can help me, and that I can help you as well. Though I understand if you do not believe me. Or trust me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough information to be able to automatically do either,” said Sherlock. “But it’s only been five minutes. It might help if I knew what had made you come here in the first place.”

The woman paused, taking a breath. “I am here because of Liang,” she said.

“Liang?”

“Liang was a member of the Tong. Of the Black Lotus. You have met him, though when you were introduced it is likely that he went by a different name.”

Sherlock sat up a little straighter. There were only so many possibilities, but there was one that was on his mind more than any other at the moment. “… The Black Lotus’ assassin. Zhi Zhu.”

The woman inclined her head in a tiny nod. “Yes. The Spider. To me, he was Liang.”

“And you were…” Sherlock scanned the woman’s face for similarities with Zhi Zhu, and found them. “… family. Siblings?”

The woman nodded again. “Yes. He is… that is, he _was_ my brother.” She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and continued, “You may remember me, Mr. Holmes, though we have not met in person until now. My name is Soo Lin Yao.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING GOOD WORK WHEN PEOPLE WHO WERE RECENTLY TRYING TO KILL YOU ARE COMING TO YOU FOR HELP
> 
> ~
> 
> I’m back!! Apologies for the long delay; some of you may recall I was majorly distracted with my candidacy exams (which unfortunately I have to retake in the fall, but such is life! We must persevere. That said thank you all so much for your encouragement last chapter! <3 :’) It means a lot) and then a lot of research and research trips, including a week and a half out of the country with no computer. But! I am back and back in the flow of chapters, so updates will resume their usual every-other-week schedule through the summer.  
> I hope all of you have been well in the hiatus <3
> 
> We resume with an unexpected visitor… I’ll say more about alterations I’ve made to Soo Lin’s background and timeline in the next chapter, when she’s had a chance to talk about it herself. :D What I will say now is that I have changed the timeline of Soo Lin and Zhi Zhu/Liang’s involvement with the Black Lotus somewhat. Specifically, in the show Soo Lin had already left the organization years before her brother came to London; in my fic, that isn’t the case. All will be explained next chapter (which will be up very soon!), so stay tuned…  
> Also to give credit where it is very much due, thanks to some lovely transcripts (namely [ArianedeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com)’s lovely work on live journal and dreamwidth) and the German wikia page for the show for reminding me that Zhi Zhu was not Soo Lin's brother's given name in time for me to write this chapter... XD  
> In any case, I’m excited to have finally reached this stage in the plot. Can I take the summer off from work and just write please and thank you
> 
> I won’t say much more than that -- keep your eyes out for the next chapter in two weeks (or less?!?!)!  
> Thank you all so much for sticking with me, and for your feedback! <3


	38. Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this, an update that's on time?! A MIRACLE  
> Enjoy!

As soon as she said it, Sherlock knew exactly who she was.

He almost couldn’t believe he hadn’t realized it until now—granted, Yao was among the most common Chinese surnames, so it would have been somewhat presumptuous to assume anything about her or Zhi Zhu (or, apparently, Liang) Yao from names alone. But it had also been careless to overlook a possible connection; as Mycroft was fond of saying, it would have been too much of a coincidence if this woman and the dead Black Lotus assassin just happened to share a surname. The universe was rarely so lazy when it came to coincidence.

The point was, Soo Lin was right. Sherlock _did_ remember her, though they had never met before. “You were the one I communicated with about the antique dish Moriarty sent me,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “The art historian from the National Antiquities Museum. We exchanged a few emails when I was trying to determine if the dish was authentic.”

“Yes,” said Soo Lin. “When our employer partnered with Gruner, I was given a position as an ‘expert’ in Chinese ceramics at the museum. My job was to inform the museum and its associates every time one of our smuggled antiques was brought to Gruner’s auction house—though they did not know these antiques were stolen, of course. Gruner would vouch for its provenance on his end, and I would ensure the museum of its authenticity. It helped us to guarantee a buyer for our items, by selling to known collectors or to museums through the London auction houses. Antiques are easier and more profitable to sell than drugs, if you can secure a trusting and ignorant source of buyers.”

“And it just so happened that you were perfectly positioned to point me in the right direction when I was looking into the origin of the dish. And into Gruner’s history,” Sherlock added.

Soo Lin looked down at her hands in her lap, and Sherlock got the distinct impression that she wasn’t proud of her affiliation with Gruner.

“I might not have caught him without your assistance,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I know,” said Soo Lin. “That was not an accident. I was instructed to give you genuine information about the dish, regardless of what consequences that might have for Gruner. Though I did not hold him in very high regard, I admit. We were only ever distant business partners.”

“So what is your role, now that Gruner’s little antiquities business has encountered some… legal issues?” said Sherlock.

The question clearly made Soo Lin uncomfortable. She shifted in her chair, and lowered her eyes again. “For now, I am still working in the museum.”

“’For now’? Do you think that’s going to change?”

But Soo Lin shook her head. “In a way. Yes. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Then tell me.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Everything. Please.”

Soo Lin took a breath, and met Sherlock’s gaze. “I will not burden you with details about how my brother and I came to be part of the Tong, Mr. Holmes, but you may readily infer that our childhood was not a happy one. Or an easy one. The Black Lotus, and their former leader—the one we called Shan—offered us a means of staying alive, and we took it. When we were young, we smuggled thousands of pounds’ worth of drugs into Hong Kong from China. But when Shan partnered with…” She trailed off a moment, looking nervously at the curtained windows, and it seemed to Sherlock that she was afraid to speak of Moriarty by name. Shan had been the same, he remembered. Maybe it was a sign of respect. Or fear. Or both. Sure enough, when Soo Lin continued, she rephrased the sentence to avoid the name, instead saying, “Shan was given an offer, to smuggle antiques instead of drugs, with bases in China and in London. I came to London, while my brother stayed by Shan wherever she went, here or there. He was her puppet by then.”

Sherlock nodded slightly. Zhi Zhu had been one of the men with Shan when Sherlock was abducted. It made sense that he had been something like Shan’s bodyguard and personal assassin. And when Shan was murdered, he would have then answered to her superior—which could only have been Moriarty.

Soo Lin went on, “But I wanted to leave the Tong. I thought I could, if I disappeared and left London. I could start over, working like I do now but on my own terms. Since we came to London I have been fortunate, in a way, to be placed in the museum—I was able to live a life that was not always in the shadows. Even small things, like caring for teapots in the museum’s collection, have meant a great deal to me. I could be happy living that kind of life. I thought, maybe, my brother and I could run away and start over. So the last time I saw my brother, I asked him to come with me… but he would not. He had been their weapon of choice for so long, and he was no longer able or willing to change. We argued. In the end I decided that I was going to leave without him. I would have already left London by now. But that was before…”

When she trailed off, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap, Sherlock finished the sentence for her. “Before Moriarty killed him.”

Soo Lin nodded.

Sherlock wasn’t sure how much Soo Lin did or didn’t know about his Gift. He suspected that all of the Black Lotus might know something about the power he and Moriarty shared, but there was no way of knowing—without asking outright—how detailed that something might be. He decided to proceed without being specific, just in case. He was inclined to trust Soo Lin, for reasons he didn’t entirely understand, but he wasn’t about to share everything within minutes of first meeting her. “Moriarty killed him because of me,” he said after a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John blink—a subtly-surprised expression on his face—at Sherlock’s tone, which was quiet and apologetic rather than businesslike. “I’m not saying this because I want to make you regret coming here. I want to be truthful with you in exchange for the information you’ve given me, especially because I was as involved in your brother’s death as Moriarty is. Your brother was killed as part of a warning given to me. So it is arguably my fault.”

Soo Lin raised her gaze, eyes bright. “He is not dead on your order,” she said. “My brother was an assassin. Death was always a possibility. He knew that, and so did I. Death was always possible. But… not like that.”

In his head, Sherlock could replay the moment that Zhi Zhu Yao died over and over in vivid detail, the rush of air and the line of blood running down Yao’s face so visceral in his recollections that the memory feels real when he conjures it.

Soo Lin shifted, eyes dropping to her lap once more. “It was bad enough when we were being led by Shan. But it was much worse when she was killed, and _he_ took her place. Shan commanded us, but _he_ uses us and disposes of us without thinking twice.” She dabbed her eyes on her sleeve.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” said John quietly, speaking for the first time since they had all sat down. “For what happened to your brother.”

Soo Lin looked up at him in surprise. After a moment, she said, her voice even softer than his, “… Thank you.”

Sherlock let the silence hang in the air for a moment before he spoke again. Soo Lin’s gaze returned to his face as he said, “I’ve been doing everything I can to bring Moriarty down. I was doing so before your brother died. And I intend to keep doing so, in spite of the warning your brother’s death was supposed to convey. Moriarty and I aren’t finished with one another just yet.”

“I want to help you stop him,” said Soo Lin, and for the first time since she had walked through their door, she suddenly sounded fierce.

Sherlock pursed his lips. “No offense, but that’s unfortunately a lot easier said than done, in this case.” When Soo Lin looked undeterred, he continued carefully, “The only options we have are to find Moriarty or to find someone who might lead us to him. And I’m willing to bet finding Moriarty is almost impossible.”

The look on Soo Lin’s face was enough to confirm that suspicion.

“So I’m right in thinking that no one in the Black Lotus gets their instructions directly from him?” asked Sherlock.

“You are,” said Soo Lin. “Shan did, when she was alive. She spoke with him both remotely as well as in person, though I do not believe she met him more than a handful of times. Whatever the communication method, she relayed his orders to us. Since she died, we have gotten our instructions more discreetly, through another.”

Sherlock paused. “… The sniper.”

Soo Lin inclined her head. “Out of necessity. I do not know for how long, but… yes.”

Something about her phrasing seemed odd. “What do you mean, you don’t know for how long?”

“I think…” Soo Lin glanced at the window again, like she was half-expecting to be shot down through the glass, and Sherlock found it was making him feel almost as uneasy as she looked. It was a nervous gesture, not a realistic concern, but given what they were discussing it still seemed like an appropriate reason to be on-edge. Soo Lin tucked her hair behind one ear, and went on, “No one in the Black Lotus has received any instructions since my brother died. Since our employer met with you. This is… unusual. Perhaps I am reading too much into it—but when I was working with Gruner, when he stopped receiving instructions is when he was cut loose.”

At last Sherlock thought he understood. He sank back into his chair. “You think he’s going to cut the Black Lotus loose. He’s going to cut his losses.”

Soo Lin nodded.

“But you think it’s going to be different than when he just let me identify Gruner so I could turn him in to the Yard.”

Again, a nod.

There was more to it, more in her face, to a _something_ in her eyes. Sherlock took a breath as his heart sank low in his chest. “You think – he’s going to kill them. You. All of you.”

Soo Lin’s bright, fierce, anxious eyes were suddenly overflowing. She sniffed, and nodded a third time.

“Holy shit,” said John, head dropping into his hands.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” said Soo Lin, in a tone that was more pleading than hopeful.

“I don’t think you are,” said Sherlock.

John got to his feet and retrieved a box of tissues, bringing them over to Soo Lin, who took one with a murmured word of thanks. He glanced at Sherlock while Soo Lin dried her eyes, and gave him a look that very clearly said something along the lines of ‘ _We’re involved now, come hell or high water_ ’.

Sherlock took a breath, ruffled his hair, and sat up in his chair. “All right. How do you know no one else has received instructions?”

“There is a code,” said Soo Lin. “A code which all smugglers in the Tong know. You will have seen it.”

“The painted numbers on our door a month ago,” Sherlock guessed.

Soo Lin nodded again. “We marked your door so each of us would know where to find you. And so you would know that we would be aware of your movements.”

Sherlock smiled grimly. He’d guessed as much a month earlier when the marks had first appeared. The paint was long gone now, but the mark had served its purpose before then. “So you’ve all been exchanging messages in the usual way in the usual places and no one has anything new. What does the rest of the Black Lotus think?”

“They are frightened, I think. But unwilling to do anything other than wait.”

“But you’re not willing to continue waiting.”

“My perspective is different, perhaps,” said Soo Lin. “I am not someone who wants to maintain their position within the organization. I am someone who wants to leave it. So perhaps I am unwilling to wait for instructions for as long as they are because I am… disillusioned enough with all of it to look at the bigger picture. I have heard nothing since Gruner was handed over to the police, and no one else in the Black Lotus has received any instructions since my brother died. I… I think my worth to our employer, like that of so many others, may have run its course. And I think the same can be said for the rest of the Black Lotus.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth.

He wasn’t willing to say it out loud, but Soo Lin was probably right. If the line of communication between Moriarty and the Black Lotus had gone silent, then it was almost certainly because their business together was at an end. And if that was the case, Moriarty would liquidate these assets, rather than simply cut them loose.

In short, the Black Lotus would all die, quickly and without warning.

“If he does start to go after the remaining members of the Black Lotus, Moriarty will use his sniper, in all likelihood,” said Sherlock. “So you’re proposing to help me find the sniper before he finds the Black Lotus.”

Soo Lin nodded.

“You understand that this places you in considerable danger,” said Sherlock. “Talking to me right now is dangerous. Assisting me is on another plane altogether.”

“I know the risks,” said Soo Lin. Her expression was hard. “And I accept them. I am alone now, Mr. Holmes. Whatever happens now, it does not frighten me. And if I do nothing, I am dead anyway. No one leaves the Tong alive. That’s the last thing my brother said to me—and I think now I know he was right.”

“He doesn’t have to be,” interrupted John. “We can help you. Get you into some kind of protective custody, maybe. Help you start over, like you planned.”

“No,” said Soo Lin. “No. Thank you. I have made up my mind.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair. “I’m inclined to side with John. As much as I need the information you’re offering to get for me, I’m not willing to subject you to that great of a risk.”

But Soo Lin shook her head. “I have limited time no matter what. In a community like ours, small as it is, there are too many secrets between us for me to be able to leave. As I see it, my time is limited already. My best chance is to help you.”

John continued to look uneasy, but Sherlock was inclined to agree with her. They were all running out of time.

“I can use our communication system to try to find the sniper,” said Soo Lin. “I think it will be possible for me to give you his location, and then I will leave it to you and the people you trust to catch him.”

Sherlock and John exchanged looks—Sherlock’s eager, John’s skeptical—before Sherlock turned back to Soo Lin. “You think you can find him?”

She nodded. “I think so. One of us will know the usual places. I will not tell the others that I am searching for him on your behalf, but at least some will be worried enough to help me locate him if they think it is for their own benefit. And I can pass that information on to you.”

“How long will it take?”

“A few days, I think.”

Sherlock nodded. He glanced at John, and he could see unease and optimism battling in his expression. Soo Lin’s expression was increasingly determined. “You came to me, not the police,” said Sherlock, looking closely at Soo Lin. “So clearly there’s something you think I can do that they can’t.” But he knew the answer as soon as he opened his mouth, before Soo Lin had uttered a single word. More than that, he knew exactly how much she knew about his Gift. “You think you’re going to die before you can pass on the information. You came to me because you – knew that wouldn’t be a problem for me.”

Soo Lin’s face was blank. “If any of us are going to survive this, it _has_ to work.”

Before Sherlock could reply, John got to his feet. “Can we talk?” he asked Sherlock, making an apologetic gesture to Soo Lin. “Privately? For a minute?”

Soo Lin nodded quickly, and Sherlock stood. He led the way down the hall to his bedroom, John at his heels, and they stopped just inside the door. Sherlock closed the door halfway, just enough to keep an eye on Soo Lin.

“This is so beyond dangerous,” hissed John, voice low and suddenly harsh now that they were out of earshot. “She’s putting her life at risk. Never mind how risky this is for you and me.”

“You recall how I said that there was almost _no_ chance of some major, unforeseen upheaval among the people within Moriarty’s network?” said Sherlock.

“I remember.”

“I don’t think that anymore.”

John shifted anxiously. “You really think Moriarty’s going to kill everyone in the Black Lotus?”

“To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought until now; I was too preoccupied with finding him and not with what he might be doing in the meantime,” Sherlock admitted. “But Soo Lin has made a good point, and the Black Lotus are the people in Moriarty’s network that we’ve had the most direct contact with. Considering how carelessly he got rid of Shan and Zhi Zhu, it doesn’t seem all that unreasonable that he would get rid of the rest of them in the same quick fashion. They’ve been too exposed. And with Gruner put away, he doesn’t really need them to smuggle things out of China to the London markets. I think he’s going to start eliminating all of the pieces of his network that I’ve contacted or exposed, and then when I’m dead, he’ll be able to vanish again. Very neat and tidy.”

“I’m just worried about the risks of her poking around for Moriarty’s personal assassin,” said John. He absentmindedly touched his left shoulder, where there had been a bullet in the immediate vicinity of his clavicle some two months, twelve days, nine hours, and forty-three minutes earlier.

Sherlock pursed his lips, understanding John’s unease, but he said, “She came to us because she thinks the situation is so dire that she needs to be able to act even if she’s dead. You and I both want to make sure that doesn’t happen. But she’s almost certainly going to die if we don’t catch the sniper before Moriarty gives the order to get rid of the Black Lotus. A lot of people are almost certainly going to die. If there’s a chance we can prevent that—“

“We have to take it,” John finished, with a reluctant nod. 

Sherlock nodded. He glanced at Soo Lin, who was still sitting in her chair in the middle of the living room. “Come on. We need to let her leave quickly to minimize the chance she’s spotted here.”

Sherlock led the way back out to the living room. “Apologies,” he said to Soo Lin, as they took their respective seats again. Torn between excitement and nerves, Sherlock’s tone automatically became the tone he used for cases—more focused and decisive. “If you’re _certain_ that this is something you are willing and able to do, then we’re going to do it properly. We only take the most essential risks. Meeting time, meeting place, methods of communication… we consider everything.” He looked at John, who offered an approving (though still nervous) nod. “I will follow whatever leads I can between now and when we next speak,” Sherlock continued. “Now, about our next meeting… We can’t meet here, for obvious reasons. And I am reluctant to trust the security of texts or emails, or even phone calls. We could meet you at the museum. You’d be expected to be there during work hours, and it’s a public place. It’s not wholly unreasonable for me to go there.”

Soo Lin nodded in agreement. “Give me two days. If it is possible for me to get a location, I should have it by the third day.”

“Good. You can leave me a signal around the service doors if there’s a problem. Otherwise I’ll come in that way to meet you.”

“You won’t be able to—that area is restricted to employees only.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked in a small smile. “That really won’t be a problem for me.”

Soo Lin looked from Sherlock to John, who shrugged. “He’s good at getting into places he shouldn’t,” John sighed, in a rather weary tone of voice.

“Expect me to meet you there. I’ll be there when the museum opens,” Sherlock persisted. “If there’s a problem between now and then, contact me directly in an emergency or leave a message in the code the rest of the Tong uses. I’ll learn the code between now and then.”

At that, Soo Lin raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded. “Quite. John and I had already deduced that it’s a number system, and I would assume the numbers are Chinese in origin.”

“Correct,” said Soo Lin. “The code is based on a book…” She glanced at the shelves on the wall, then stood. Sherlock also got to his feet, as Soo Lin walked to one of the shelves and removed a book. She held it up. “This one, actually.”

Sherlock looked at the cover. “The _London A-Z_?”

John let out a dry laugh. “So the cipher to the code was sitting in our flat all along. Of course it was.”

Sherlock took the guide from Soo Lin and flipped through it. “So… page number? Line number? Word?”

“Page and word,” said Soo Lin. “The numbers are in pairs.”

Sherlock shut the book with a decisive snap. “Easy, then. If the plan changes but it’s not safe to contact me directly, leave me a message here or the museum. I’ll see it.”

Soo Lin nodded tentatively. “All right.”

Sherlock dropped the _London A-Z_ on his chair. “Then if that’s settled, the next step is to get you out of here. I don’t want to risk you being seen talking to me.”

Soo Lin straightened, and smiled thinly. “With luck, we’ll speak again in two days. “

“But if something goes wrong…” John added firmly, “… then we change the plan. If you feel you’re in danger or if you discover that it’s impossible to find the sniper safely, then don’t. Don’t compromise your safety.”

_Any more than she already has_ , thought Sherlock, the worry taking on a voice in his mind that sounded almost annoyingly like John. He ushered Soo Lin towards the door. “We’ll be close by until we hear from you. So just be _careful_.”

“I will,” said Soo Lin, bowing her head, making her way to the stairs. Sherlock and John followed, hanging back as she took her coat off the hook by the door and pulled it on. When she was ready to leave, she looked at Sherlock again, with another small, determined smile, the corners of her mouth trembling ever so slightly.

“We’ll see you again soon,” said Sherlock firmly.

She inclined her head yet again. “I know,” she replied, in a tone that said conveyed more hope than actual certainty.

Sherlock opened the door and stuck his head out, looking up and down the road. It was empty, the only movement from moths fluttering around the streetlamps in the cold autumn air. “It’s clear,” he murmured, stepping back for Soo Lin to pass him. 

Without another word, Soo Lin stepped out onto the sidewalk and, bundling her coat around her, hurried down the street until she melted into the night. Within a few minutes, she was out of sight.

For a while, Sherlock and John stood in silence just inside the door, watching the street even after Soo Lin had vanished.

It was John who finally broke the silence. “… Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

“… Do you think the sniper will get to them faster than we can get to the sniper?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, and closed the door. “Maybe. But not if I can help it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John: everything's going to be okay, right?  
> Sherlock: everything's definitely going to be okay  
> John: ...  
> Sherlock: ...  
> * [Always Sunny in Philadelphia theme plays](http://alexanderlozada.com/iasip/?IkV2ZXJ5dGhpbmcgSXMgRGVmaW5pdGVseSBOb3QgT2theSI=) *
> 
> ~
> 
> Now we get the full story from Soo Lin...  
> You'll undoubtedly have noticed that -- as I mentioned in the previous chapter's notes -- I've made several noticeable changes to Soo Lin's backstory and timeline. Specifically, Soo Lin is still a member of the Black Lotus when her brother is killed, and she is placed in the museum as _part_ of the Black Lotus' smuggling operation. I did this largely to better incorporate Gruner into the makeup of Moriarty's organization, since this way he has a contact in the museum which supports his position AND it makes the smuggling operation itself look more legitimate. Having an "expert" in Chinese ceramics both within the museum and with an outside auction house/collector means both internal and external validation for the smuggled pieces, and it means that either Gruner or Soo Lin (thru the museum) could guarantee the pieces were sold. It might seem a little trivial but I really wanted everything I've added to the story to be realistic. Plus, I think it adds something to have Soo Lin stand up to the Black Lotus and Moriarty while she's still involved with them; I always thought she was a bit of a badass in the show and I wanted to do more with her character. Hopefully the changes have proved entertaining? :D
> 
> Maybe things will work out better for Soo Lin in this universe? Right? Please? Haha ha ha... ha... oh boy
> 
> We're moving into the final arc of the story now and I'm very excited about it  
> also terrified  
> Working as fast as I can to write in spite of juggling many projects at work, so stay tuned for the next update in a couple weeks. I promise to be true to my word and have regular updates for the rest of the summer!
> 
> As always, thanks so much for reading and commenting <3 I really appreciate it!


	39. Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this a little bit late, but at least it's only "a little bit late" instead of the usual "very late"
> 
> Enjoy!

The next morning, a pillow to the back of the head startled John out of a thoroughly restless night’s sleep.

“No,” he said flatly, without bothering to move.

There was a pause, and then something much harder and more angular than a pillow collided with the back of his head.

He yelped and sat up, rubbing his head and turning to face the door so he could glare at Sherlock, albeit blearily. “ _What_ ,” he demanded.

Sherlock pointed at the object he’d tossed at John from his spot by the door.

Mumbling vague threats about _certain unnamed persons_ needing to bring _themselves_ back from the dead if they continue chucking things at sleeping people, John picked up the box that Sherlock had thrown and examined the packaging. He stopped, and looked up at Sherlock with a confused frown. “A phone?”

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe. “Seemed foolish to leave you without one. Otherwise, our only means of long-distance communication is with Mrs. Hudson’s landline, and it’s unwise to risk missing an important call because Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner next door can talk about literally nothing for terrifying lengths of time.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” John opened the box and got out the mobile, looking it over. “Thanks.”

“I had Mycroft drop it off this morning,” said Sherlock. “I’ll let you set it up and add whatever contacts you deem necessary. Admittedly, since you’re supposed to be dead right now, it likely won’t be too many. But, then again, you’re a slower typist than a six-year-old, so—“

“Hey!”

“—just come find me downstairs whenever you’re done.”

With that, Sherlock turned and traipsed back downstairs, leaving John with the phone. John unboxed all the parts and (after a bit of muddling over the instructions and assorted cords) plugged the mobile into a power outlet to charge. It powered up after a few moments, and John opened the contact book. He added Sherlock’s number, and Lestrade’s, and Mycroft’s—all three of which he had memorized through frequency of use over the past several weeks—and then he stopped, wavering.

Even if he wasn’t supposed to be dead, there weren’t many people he would call for fun, even under more normal circumstances. Maybe half a dozen. Probably fewer than that. But he couldn’t call them anytime soon anyway, not with Moriarty looming in the background. If he was being realistic, he might be dead—dead again, that is, and in a very permanent way this time—before Moriarty was out of the picture. And even if Moriarty _was_ out of the picture, could he talk to them then? He didn’t even know if his friends or family knew he had died. If they did, how did he explain not being dead anymore? How did he explain not only being alive, again, but also, apparently, sort of immortal?

John pursed his lips, and finally closed out of the contact book and switched the screen off.

Leaving the mobile on his bedside table to charge, John dressed and made his way downstairs. He found Sherlock reclining on the sofa, the _London A to Z_ open in his lap and his phone in hand, texting at what looked like a rate of about a thousand words per minute.

“Mycroft?” John asked, getting his notebook from its place on the coffee table before sitting in his usual chair.

“No, my available Homeless informants,” Sherlock replied. “We need to be keeping an eye on more locations than the two of us can handle.”

John sank back in his chair. In the short time he had been awake, he’d almost forgotten they were in the middle of a case. A really stressful case where there was a decent chance that someone might die in the next seventy-two hours. A nice someone who really didn’t deserve to die.

Sherlock glanced over at him, noting the change in posture. “You all right?”

“Honestly? I hate this,” said John flatly.

Sherlock looked at him, raising an eyebrow in a mute prompt for him to elaborate.

John rubbed his eyes, and went on, “We have to just sit and wait while Soo Lin is risking her life trying to get us this information. And there’s nothing we can do. We can’t protect her, and we can’t have the police protect her, or even Mycroft’s people, because if she does anything different or starts hanging around different people, then it’s obvious that she’s betrayed the Black Lotus. But she’s not safe.”

“Should I have refused her help?” asked Sherlock, his tone equal parts defensive and genuinely curious.

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

The Detective lowered his phone to give John his full attention. His expression was equal parts worried, amused, and exasperated. “I’m usually the one who gets wound up over things like this.”

“Yeah, well… It’s probably equally me being overtired and me being tired of not doing anything.”

Sherlock paused, looking John up and down. Then he sighed. “We aren’t going to be ‘not doing anything’.” He launched himself off the sofa and to his feet, so he could cross the room and sit down in his chair across from John. He fixed John with a determined look, and continued, “Just because Soo Lin is trying to find the sniper for us doesn’t mean I have any intention of sitting still. There are things we can do as well. For one, we can watch her place of work in case she’s found out—there’s a café around the back of the museum facing the service entrance, where she is supposed to leave messages. We also need eyes here, and in other locations of interest. Besides that, I want to talk to Gruner. We’ve ignored him up to this point, but he’s just as much of a loose end as the rest of the Black Lotus. If Soo Lin is right about Moriarty’s plan to get rid of every possible liability, then Gruner’s in danger too.”

“You think he’ll actually be helpful?” John asked.

“Honestly? No. But we’ll know soon enough,” Sherlock replied. “His initial hearing starts this week. Maybe he’ll be willing to make a deal. In any case, there’s plenty to do between watching the museum, watching the flat, organizing our support teams, learning the code that the Black Lotus use, talking to Gruner, and trying not to get killed in the meantime. Soo Lin isn’t doing this alone.”

John nodded, feeling only a little less anxious than he’d felt a few minutes ago. He opened up his notebook to jot down the particulars, picking up his pen and looking down at the blank page he’d opened to. “That’s something, then. You’d better be careful when you’re on watch, though—I bet everyone in Moriarty’s network knows your face by now. You’re a private detective so it’s not like everyone in London knows your face, sure, but the last thing we need is for you to be reckless right now. Not when the stakes are this high. So do me a favor and be careful out there, all right? And call me if something happens.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

John scowled down at his notebook and looked up, mouth open to iterate an insistence, only to find Sherlock _glaring_ at him. He blinked. “Uh.”

“You must be _joking_ ,” said Sherlock.

“What?!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve got the morning to organize a watch schedule for my Network, get Mycroft up to speed, and learn Suzhou numerals. Do you think I have time to watch Soo Lin’s workplace too? What did you think I woke you up at the crack of dawn for? So you could get a full day of writing in?” He flapped a hand impatiently at the door. “Go!”

John looked at Sherlock, then at his notebook, then at the door, then at Sherlock again. “… _Me_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, this time so exaggeratedly that his entire head rolled with them. “No, the skull. Of _course_ you—who else am I going to be able to send on such short notice? _Go_!”

It took John another three seconds to process the order, and then he leapt out of his chair, dropping his notebook and sprinting upstairs. In precisely thirty-seven seconds, he was hurrying back into the living room, tugging on his jacket and shoving his new, barely-charged mobile phone into his trouser pocket.

“Be discrete getting there. Watch the service doors from a distance and be back here by noon. Text if there’s an issue,” said Sherlock.

“No problem!” said John, like Sherlock had just told him he’d won the lottery, and then he was out the door and gone.

Sherlock smiled to himself as John’s hurried steps faded away, and then he turned his attention back to his phone.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The rest of that day, and the entirety of the next, held to that pattern of watch schedules. John spent both mornings in the little café across the street from the antiquities museum’s rear exit, watching employees and service workers bustle in and out. The second morning, he spotted Soo Lin as she came in to work, but she hurried inside and did not reappear. But on both days, at precisely noon, John finished his tea and made his way back to Baker Street.

The job was dull, and it did little to make John feel any less anxious about the plan, but there was something to be said for being part of it. A contribution of some kind—even a contribution this small—to the limited efforts they could make in protecting Soo Lin made it that much more bearable.

He suspected that was why Sherlock had given him the task in the first place. John wasn’t any better or worse than anyone else who could keep watch for trouble, but it made John feel a little better about the situation, so it was worth whatever risk it brought.

 

~o~O~o~

 

The second day, John returned to Baker Street to find—according to Mrs. Hudson, who was gazing out their living room window over a plate of biscuits—that Sherlock had gone to meet with Gruner. John took over the watch from their bemused landlady and waited by the window, getting up once or twice to retrieve something to eat or drink for the kitchen.

Over an hour had passed, and John was halfway through making himself lunch when Sherlock returned. “Hey!” he called by way of greeting, leaving his sandwich on the counter. “How’d it go?”

“Gruner refused to cooperate,” said Sherlock, scowling and dropping into his usual chair.

“He wouldn’t talk to you?”

“Well,” Sherlock amended, looking even more cross, “he did _talk_ to me, but not about anything that might actually help us. He used our meeting as an opportunity to tell me exactly what he thinks about his arrest.”

John grimaced. “Ah.”

“He’s an idiot.” Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “His expensive, idiotic legal counsel managed to get him house arrest on the pretense that he isn’t a British national and thereby shouldn’t be forced to sit in our jails pending a trial. So he doesn’t even have the relative protection that police custody would have afforded him. And obviously I can’t tell him outright that Moriarty might have ordered a hit on him, or he’ll do something stupid. He has a police officer monitoring him, and he has a tracking bracelet, so he’s convinced that he can wait this out. People always feel more confident when they’re in their own territory.”

“So even if he does know anything about Moriarty or his sniper or his plans, he’s not going to tell you about it,” John summarized.

Sherlock nodded. “More or less. Still, I’ve asked Lestrade to keep a closer eye on his residence. I’m still obligated to protect him, even if he is a scumbag _and_ a colossal moron.”

“Take comfort in the fact that you’ve taken the moral high ground,” John suggested, to which Sherlock groaned.

 

~o~O~o~

 

Sherlock found the monotony of waiting—if possible—even more frustrating than John did. Each consecutive day was more nerve-wracking than the previous one, so that by the time John set out for the museum on the third morning, Sherlock could barely sit still. He tried, with mixed success, to focus on coordinating Mycroft and Lestrade in the event that some information had, indeed, made its way to Soo Lin. But the wait, with its present uncertainty, was agonizing.

But then, mid-morning, his phone buzzed with a text from John.

 

_Message. What do you want me to do? –J_

 

There was an image attached.

Suzhou characters, written in yellow spray paint.

Sherlock sent back a simple ‘ _Wait. –SH_ ’ before shoving his phone into his pocket. He pulled on his coat and made a detour to John’s room, only mildly disappointed when he didn’t find John’s gun stashed in the usual drawer in the nearest bedside table. He returned to the living room, grabbed the _London A to Z_ along with the pen out of John’s notebook, and hurried out of the flat and down to the street. He hailed a cab, and twenty minutes later he was clambering out to stand in front of the little café behind the antiquities museum.

John was seated in the window, and he looked up in surprise as Sherlock passed in front of the glass to enter the café. Sherlock made a beeline for John’s table and sat opposite him.

“I didn’t realize ‘wait’ meant ‘wait for me to join you’,” said John. “Is it urgent, then?”

“More exciting than urgent.” Sherlock held up a little scrap of paper for John to see. The numbers John had photographed were copied onto it, with the numerical translation and the associated word beneath each one. “I translated it on the ride here. It says ‘after closing today’. So she must either have the information we need or be expecting to have it by the end of the day. Either way, we’ll know in a few hours.”

“So we wait until the museum closes, and then we wait for her at the doors over there?” John asked, inclining his head towards the door he had been watching for three days. “She left the message on the side of one of the dumpsters by the door, so I’m assuming we’re supposed to meet her where she left the message.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Seems reasonable. We’ll wait here until closing, and then we look for her. In the meantime, we keep an eye on that door for complications.”

“Like?”

“Honestly? I have no idea,” Sherlock confessed. That was the real stress of the whole operation. They were hoping to catch someone they wouldn’t be able to recognize. Was it really possible to watch for the sniper when the entire point of this was to find out who the sniper was?

They may know, in less than twenty-four hours.

Or.

Sherlock didn’t want to think about the alternatives.

He and John waited in the café, passing hours with anxious silence and halfhearted conversation. Neither seemed willing to take their eyes off the back exit of the museum for more than a few minutes at a time. As evening drew closer and the sky outside the window started to fade from greys and blues into the purples and pastels of twilight, the two of them watched museum staff begin to file out intermittently through the back door. Ten minutes, then thirty, and then fifty passed, and the trickle of people sped up, then slowed, then stopped altogether.

There was no sign of Soo Lin.

An hour after closing, John broke the silence. “What do we do if she doesn’t show up?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “… Come on,” he said, and he got to his feet. John followed suit, and they filed out of the café and across the street.

Walking casually, as if he belonged there, Sherlock strode to the door and looked around. He easily spotted the message that John had seen hours earlier, the yellow spray paint now dried, thin drips reaching the pavement. There were no new messages, and there was no indication that Soo Lin had wanted them to meet her anywhere else.

“I don’t think she’s left yet,” said Sherlock thoughtfully.

John looked at the door. “Do we wait?”

Sherlock hated waiting.

He jiggled the door handle. It didn’t budge. “Locked,” he muttered.

“Great,” said John sarcastically. He looked around, checking that they were still alone. “Now wha—“

However, in the time it had taken John to check their surroundings and start to reply, Sherlock had dug his set of lockpicks out of his coat pocket and started on the lock. In just under ten seconds, there was a soft click, and Sherlock turned the handle to open the door.

“All doors can be opened,” said Sherlock, a little too smugly. He clarified, “With the proper application of knowledge and skill. And a set of picks. Really, this would have been moderately more challenging if the lock used a keycard. For a museum’s security, this is beyond subpar.”

“You can brag later,” said John, peering into the hallway beyond the door, which was empty, silent, and dark.

“Right you are,” said Sherlock, and he slipped into the building. John followed behind, gently closing the door after them with another click.

Feeling the wall cautiously in the dark, Sherlock found the lights and turned them on, illuminating the hallway—and revealing a security system mounted on the wall near the door. “Oh,” he said, not at all fazed. “So security isn’t _entirely_ lax.”

“Is that an alarm?” John hissed.

“Don’t panic just yet,” said Sherlock, peering at the numbers on the keypad. “Most of these operate on a sixty-second timer, so ideally we have another fifty seconds or so.”

“To turn it off?”

“To put in the code.”

“But—“

Sherlock ignored John’s protests and focused on the numbers. Exactly twenty-two seconds passed, and then Sherlock coolly punched four buttons. The alarm beeped, and reset.

There was a beat, and then John said, blankly, “How. Like—how. How the _hell_.”

Sherlock rubbed his fingertips together. “Oil from your hands wears off the numbers on the keypad. Four keys are worn, to varying degrees. If we assume the code is some combination of those four numbers, and is a four-number combination, and that the reason only four keys are worn off is because people are too lazy to change the combination, then the combination is the keys in order from most to least worn. It’s very straightforward. And painfully easy to figure out, bringing me back to my earlier point about the pathetic security in this wing of the museum.” He gave John a pointed look. “Now, aren’t you the one who wanted me to stop bragging so we could find Soo Lin?”

John scowled and nodded.

They moved quickly down the hall, past rooms designated for restorations and staff storage, before they stepped through another closed door into the main body of the museum. Like the back rooms, the museum was dark and empty, the last visitors and employees having long since departed for the night. The silence throughout the building was far from a comforting one, even if it suggested that they were moving undetected.

Sherlock glanced around, getting his bearings. “Soo Lin works with the ceramics in the adjacent wing,” he said, speaking softly in the darkness even though there was no indication that anyone was around to hear.

“Right,” John replied, just as quietly.

 “… Did you bring your gun?”

With a light intake of breath, John pulled out his gun from where it had been hidden at the small of his back. He glanced at Sherlock, before cocking it and settling the grip in both hands.

Sherlock gave the room in front of them one more sweeping glance. Something was wrong, even if he didn’t know what. “Stay close to me,” he said softly, and he led the way through the gallery and into the next. John followed in close step, the two of them passing from room to room without a sound, the silence hanging heavily on their shoulders.

And then they rounded a corner, and there was noise.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and held up an arm, signaling for John to stop. They both stood, straining to listen—and sure enough, the sound resolved into whispers.

The words weren’t immediately discernible, and it took Sherlock several seconds to realize that this was because the language being spoken was not English. His first thought—whether it was correct or not—was that it was Chinese. Which might mean that they had just walked in on an exchange of information between Soo Lin and at least one other member of the Black Lotus.

Sherlock turned his attention from the purpose of the meeting they had stumbled upon to the logistics of it. The important thing was not that people were speaking, but how many, how close, how calmly.

There were multiple people. Close.

Then the sniper wasn’t likely to be among them. If the sniper was here, it would not be to exchange any kind of pleasantries, and murder with a long-range precision firearm would be ill-conceived if carried out at a range that facilitated whispering.  

The voices were increasingly forceful.

He was sure he could identify Soo Lin’s voice. Soft, urgent, insistent, repeating the same phrases. Breathing sharply, quickly.

Sherlock’s skill with deduction was based on the rapid digestion of observations. Information flowed through his mind at a breakneck speed, and he processed it all. His responses to what he observed, through sound and smell and touch as much as sight, were therefore based on the progression of events he could see before they even happened. Time always had numerous paths forward, but it was his task to anticipate them all and react in turn. And there were times when all of this analysis moved too quickly even for his mind to lay out in a coherent sequence. He would just _know_ , without thinking, without processing. His Gift, his power, was bringing back the dead, not seeing the future—but, in a way, his _real_ gift was insight. It was something like instinct, a little like some kind of sixth sense, like the universe would stop time for him only long enough to tell him what to do at speeds faster than the speed of thought.

So when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end and something in his mind screamed a warning, without clear cause, Sherlock didn’t question it. Instead, he stepped out of cover and started to run towards the voices in the dark.

At the exact same moment, there was a flurry of movement, the voices suddenly urgent, conflicting edges of anger and desperation—and then there was a scream.

Sherlock took off at full tilt, sprinting the length of the room, and threw caution to the winds. “Stop!” he yelled, and there were cries of shock in front of him. A second later, he was nearly knocked over as someone shoved past him.

Sherlock pivoted on his heel, catching himself and veering around to follow them as multiple people raced around him to an adjacent room.

The next room was brighter, as was the one after that, and Sherlock registered in the back of his mind that the main atrium was ahead. But the vast majority of his attention was focused on the people half a room ahead of him running as fast as they could. He could count four of them. Was Soo Lin with them? No. Then where—

Legs straining and lungs burning with the effort, Sherlock picked up his pace even more. He careened into the atrium in time to see the fleeing members of the Black Lotus pull open a metal grate set into the base of one wall with a heavy clang. “STOP!” he bellowed again, as they frantically dove through the opening, and he caught up just as the last of them slipped through the gap.

Sherlock dropped to his knees and reached after them, fingers seizing on air. Swearing under his breath, he pulled his arm back and swung forward to follow down the grate instead. “Come on, John,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

He stopped.

John wasn’t there.

Sherlock got to his feet and turned in a full circle confusedly, breathing fast now that he had stopped running.

John wasn’t with him.

“ _Hell_ ,” Sherlock panted. He walked, and then he ran, back down the hall the way he’d come, looking left and right into every room and shadow he passed. No one. “John?” He hurriedly retraced his steps. “John!”

“Here!” John’s voice shouted back, from the first room where the commotion had been.

Permitting himself the smallest possible sigh of relief, Sherlock kept up the pace until he reached the gallery, which was strangely still in the dark despite John hanging back. “They fled through a grate in the atrium,” he called as he entered. He could just make out a shape in the gloom that had to be John, and he moved towards him. “That must be how they got in without us seeing them at the back. But I didn’t see Soo Lin. Why weren’t you following m—“

John interrupted him. “I need you to turn the lights on,” he said, his voice sharp and urgent.

Sherlock immediately stopped talking.

John’s tone conveyed several messages at once. In the absence of light and in the presence of danger, deduction depended on other senses. Sherlock cast his mind out for information—and an odd observation stood out.

The air had a distinct smell to it, of earth and dust and something metallic.

Sherlock hurriedly turned on his phone’s flashlight function on to locate the room’s light switch. He located the panel and indiscriminately flipped each of them in the hopes that one would be for the overhead lighting, and he turned to survey the room.

The lights throughout the gallery flickered on, and with them came a flood of detail that the darkness had obscured.

The source of the crash he had heard with the scream was a glass cabinet that had been pushed over. Old ceramic teapots and shards of fired clay were strewn across the floor in amongst the shattered glass. There was a knife, blade shining red, discarded with the broken glass and porcelain.

John was kneeling, his jacket off and bundled up in his hands.

Soo Lin was on the floor.

There was blood.

There was a lot of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE TIMELINE WHERE YOU WERE OKAY, SOO LIN  
> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE THE GOOD TIMELINE
> 
> ~
> 
> So sorry that this is nearly a week late, everyone. I am preparing for somewhat unexpected knee surgery in two days, which admittedly has me pretty stressed. XD I didn’t want to post a chapter I wasn’t satisfied with just for the sake of getting it up on time, so I hope you can forgive me for that. I’m hoping the next chapter will follow at least close to on time, but the specifics depend on how post-surgery recovery things progress. I’ll do my best, I promise!  
> As for exactly what I did to my knee, I fell down a rock ledge while on a geology trip to look at the dust/ash layer left behind from the asteroid that wiped out the dinosaurs. I fell on my butt, slid down the rock face, and then someone else used me as a landing pad when they fell right after me. After hiking the three miles back to town and limping around at home for the last month and a half, I learned that I had managed to tear my ACL and a few other things with it.  
> I spend my life studying rocks, and this is how they repay me…  
> (that said, it was well worth it to touch the space dust)  
> If any of you ever get the chance to go to Zumaia in northern Spain, I highly highly recommend going and admiring the beautiful rocks (it’s the cliffs and beach where Dragonstone is located in Game of Thrones, if that rings any bells). Just don’t fall on your ass like I did and it will be an A+ geologic experience ;D
> 
> Anyway, back to the chapter ~  
> As usual, I’ve left things with an unfair cliffhanger. I won't say too much now - simply that all is not well within Moriarty's organization... or in the museum... or anywhere, really
> 
> Also, a random note: the Suzhou numerals are the same number system the Black Lotus use in the show; in the show, Sherlock mistakenly refers to them as Hangzhou numerals, a misnomer that originated in a Unicode 3.0 error. Pointless tiny detail that I figured I'd mention just in case anyone was like "that's... not what the numbers are called in the show".  
> (the amount of time I spend researching the littlest things for stories is nigh on ungodly)
> 
> Next chapter to follow as soon as I'm functional!  
> As always, thank you all so much for reading and commenting <3
> 
> EDIT: a wonderful commenter reminded me of this <> tumblr post about using oil from fingers to guess PIN codes on number pads, as Sherlock does in the chapter. In so doing they also reminded me to mention a discussion on stackexchange that made me think of it in the first place — there’s a fair bit of literature about using fingerprints and the oil/smudges from fingerprints to guess passwords. Finger-drag passwords on phones can be guessed with something like 90% accuracy, according to a study by the University of Pennsylvania in 2010; PIN passwords are somewhat harder to guess, but I know I spent a fair bit of time examining the very visible fingerprints on my phone screen while I was writing that bit. XD  
> Link to the tumblr post is [HERE (can’t find the original, unfortunately, but here’s a photo of it off Reddit)](http://i.imgur.com/OGPGxUr.jpg)  
> Link to the stackexchange page is [HERE](https://security.stackexchange.com/questions/36030/touch-screen-password-guessing-by-fingerprint-trace)  
> And link to the UPenn research is [HERE](http://static.usenix.org/events/woot10/tech/full_papers/Aviv.pdf), for anyone interested or who might want to use something like this in their own writing ;D


	40. The People Who Count

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK, BABY

Sherlock’s entire mind stood still, for just a second, as a single thought rang through his head like a shot.

“Is she dead,” he said, his voice oddly toneless for asking such a blunt question—because he knew. He was looking at her, and at John, and he was looking at the knife and the blood all over the floor around her, and he _knew_ , without deductions or analysis, that she _had_ to be—

“No. And she’s not going to be. Not if I can help it,” said John firmly.

 _No_.

Not dead.

Dying, but not yet dead.

This was, strangely, the one eventuality that Sherlock was not prepared to handle.

Fortunately, John was.

“Call an ambulance,” John said firmly, glancing over his shoulder at the Detective. When Sherlock didn’t immediately leap into action, he said again, with even more urgency and authority, “Call an ambulance, _now_.”

Sherlock quickly dug into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing 999. After a few minutes of hurried explanation and direction with the operator, he disconnected. He fired off a series of rapid texts to Lestrade too, as he crossed the room to John and Soo Lin.

Soo Lin was ghostly pale, and her eyes were screwed shut in obvious pain. The wound, a stab wound, appeared to be a small but deep cut to her abdomen, judging from where John was applying pressure.

Sherlock knelt and set his phone on the floor, looking from John to Soo Lin and back again. He wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to touch her, terrified that at any second she might cross the line between alive and dead and he would unknowingly —or knowingly—bring her back to life. But doing nothing wasn’t an option.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked.

“Keep her awake,” said John, one hand bundled up in the jacket he had pressed to her stomach, and the other at her wrist to monitor her pulse.

Sherlock tore his eyes from where blood was welling from Soo Lin’s wound and looked at her face. “Soo Lin,” he said, in a forcedly steady voice.

She didn’t reply.

“Soo Lin,” said Sherlock, more insistently, making a concerted effort to channel John’s calm and authority. “Look at me. Help is coming.”

Soo Lin’s eyes fluttered open, her brow furrowed with discomfort. “Mr. Holmes,” she said, focusing on him. With focus came comprehension, and with that came worry. She shifted. “I need to talk to you.”

“Right now, you need to try to keep calm,” John interrupted firmly. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“This is more important.” Soo Lin tried to sit up, in spite of the bleeding, but John kept her down with a gentle but unmovable hand.

“Then just tell me,” said Sherlock, sparing a brief glance at John. “Keep still, take deep breaths, and tell me.”

Soo Lin paused to take a shaky breath. “I did not find the sniper…”

Sherlock’s heart sank.

“… but I know where he is going.”

There was an instant change in Sherlock’s thoughts. His heart, weighed down with leaden disappointment one second before suddenly leapt into his throat. “Tell me.”

Soo Lin’s voice was quiet, and she looked on the verge of passing out, but there was a frantic edge to her voice as she spoke. “He has sent the sniper to eliminate Gruner. Gruner is unwilling to deal with the police now, but he will do so when he thinks he will get the best deal. So the sniper will kill Gruner while he is still under house arrest, before Gruner is given the opportunity to betray our employer. Before he goes to trial.”

Sherlock balked. “So how long has Gruner got? Is the sniper going after him tonight?”

“In a matter of hours,” said Soo Lin.

“So we can find our sniper if we can determine where he would have to set up to get a shot at Gruner,” Sherlock said, adrenaline making his thoughts race ahead. “A place within the reasonable radius of Gruner’s house, looking inward into an area of the house where Gruner is likely to spend a lot of time.” He only needed a second for deductions to race forward again. In his mind, a floorplan of Gruner’s house—easily conjured, from his trip into the house fifteen days earlier—materialized, and then around it formed a map of the surrounding streets and alleyways. He needed almost no time at all to locate the area with the greatest vulnerability and greatest access. “Gruner’s study. His office with his collection of ceramics. There’s a large window at his back on either side of his desk, and the entire room is filled with glass cabinets. Nothing obstructing his view and there’s almost a guarantee that Gruner will be in there on a regular basis throughout the day.”

Sherlock’s thoughts were interrupted by a tug on his arm, as Soo Lin reached up a shaking hand to hold on to his coat sleeve.

“When he is done with Gruner, he will come for the Black Lotus,” she said, desperation in her voice along with more and more exhaustion. “All of us will be dead in a few days at most. He’s eliminating every loose end that you might follow. This is your _last chance_ to find him.”

Sherlock pressed one of his hands over hers (after only a fleeting hesitation) in what he thought might be a vaguely comforting gesture. “He’s not going to get away.”

“The sniper does not know you are hunting him,” Soo Lin persisted. She swallowed, eyelids fluttering, and went on, “He is not aware of what I have done.”

John frowned, and so did Sherlock.

“So the other Black Lotus being here tonight was just coincidence?” asked Sherlock, doubtful. “Why would your own people attack you? Without being given an order to?”

“They saw the message I left for you and realized I was speaking to others outside the Tong. They came on their own, to try to stop me from talking before I could betray them. They feared that they would be punished for my actions. I could not make them listen to my reasons.”

“But then John and I interrupted.” 

Soo Lin nodded. “You have to go. You have to catch the sniper before more of us die.”

Sherlock took a breath, and glanced at John again. John’s hands were covered in blood, and his shirt was splattered with it along the sleeves and chest. The hand monitoring Soo Lin’s pulse was perfectly steady, as was the hand holding his jacket in place over the wound. His gun was discarded carelessly on the floor.

Sherlock touched the screen on his mobile phone to see the time, thinking to himself that the fact that the average arrival time for London ambulances is eight minutes. Eight minutes is a long time in terms of getting much-needed emergency medical attention, but is just as long in terms of time spent letting the sniper prepare his operation without making an effort to interfere.

John met his gaze, and there was a look on his face that said in equal measure that he wanted to go after the sniper and he wanted to stay to help Soo Lin. But John’s choice had been made the second he’d realized she was hurt. His bloodied, perfectly steady hands marked his decision. Sherlock was the only one with a choice to make.

Sherlock took a breath. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. John’s shoulders visibly caved with relief. Soo Lin opened her mouth, looking panicked, but Sherlock gently cut her off. “I have people who will make sure this is done,” he continued. “Quickly, and without error. He is _not_ going to get away.”

Soo Lin’s lower lip quivered. “If I die and the sniper gets away, my death will be for nothing. My brother’s death will be for nothing.” 

“You’re not going to die,” said Sherlock, very firmly, as if he could make it true through the sheer power of the conviction in his voice.

“I told you before that I did not mind the risks. I was not so naïve that I thought I could break with the Tong… or with our employer… and live.” It looked like it was taking all of Soo Lin’s energy to string the words together. But her eyes suddenly had an inexplicable intensity to them, one that was familiar, though Sherlock didn’t know where from. “But if I die, I want to be the last one who dies because of him. Do that for me, please. Make me the last one.”

Sherlock looked at Soo Lin, and then glanced up at John, meeting his eyes. His brows were furrowed, face lined with worry, but his eyes had the same look to them as Soo Lin’s. As soon as he saw it, Sherlock knew where he’d seen that look before.

It reminded him of the pool.

Fear. Uncertainty. Concern. Panic. And under all of it, like the burning center of a cooling ember, was _anger_.

And why shouldn’t there be?

After all, weren’t they worth more than this? More than dying because they had the misfortune, knowingly or not, to be in Moriarty’s way? Than being killed because they’d tried to _help_ people?

Sherlock squeezed her hand. “The sniper isn’t going to get away. Nor will Moriarty, soon enough.”

“But _promise_ …” Soo Lin’s hand, still on his arm, tugged at his sleeve feebly. “Promise.”

“You have my word,” said Sherlock firmly, willing himself to believe it, foolishly, without reservation.

After a final pause, Soo Lin let go of his sleeve, and dropped her hand to the floor.

Sherlock picked up his phone, and dialed Mycroft’s number.

For what it was worth, Mycroft didn’t question how Sherlock had gotten the information about the sniper’s plan to assassinate Gruner. He didn’t even pause to question its legitimacy. The two Holmes brothers exchanged information with as many details packed to the fewest possible words, and in less than three minutes Mycroft was snapping orders to his legion of anonymous secretaries, and Sherlock hung up.

He counted a grand total of six hundred and sixty-four seconds before help arrived.

The ambulance arrived first. Sherlock heard the racket as paramedics attempted to forcibly open the door Sherlock had unlocked, and he hurried out of the room and back through the staff hallways to let them in. As the responders moved past him, Sherlock saw a number of police cars pulling up.

He answered Lestrade’s questions with a minimal amount of sarcasm, and led the way inside.

By the time they reached the room, the paramedics had lifted Soo Lin onto a stretcher, and were wheeling her out of the room. John had stayed back, surrounded by smeared blood, broken ceramics, and shards of glass.

While John and Lestrade talked, and as police officers filed into the room and started (mis)managing the crime scene, Sherlock just stood there. He felt like he was watching it all through distorted glass. Everything seemed distant and disconnected. Surreal, in a way that made him feel sick.

He’d known this was a possibility.

And it was foolish, and pointless, to stand there and feel _sorry_. _Sorry_ would not undo what had happened to Soo Lin, or what might happen to everyone else unwise or unlucky enough to deal with Moriarty.

His phone buzzed.

 

_Moving into position. The area of interest_

_is extensive, but that is immaterial. We are_

_taking nothing for granted._

_Be careful. -MH_

 

Sherlock stared hard at his phone screen. It took him a minute to realize someone was talking to him. He looked up to find Lestrade’s and John’s faces peering at him with concern. “What?” he said, a little sharply.

“Where do you want me to take you?” asked Lestrade. “Mycroft’s?”

Sherlock looked sideways at John—at the blood all over his clothes, at his expression, at his eyes—and then down the hallway where the paramedics had gone with Soo Lin. He took a breath. “The hospital.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

John was, admittedly, not much of a literary savant.

But he could recall something of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ from his schooldays. And he thought, if he had to offer a description to the first circle of Hell, it would probably very closely resemble a hospital waiting room.

 _That_ was Limbo. The in-between, endless expanse of nothing that existed just to punish people for not knowing something.

Waiting and not knowing what was happening behind the doors leading to the surgical wing at St. Bart’s certainly seemed like it fit the definition for that particular level of Hell. And a glance in Sherlock’s direction told him that Sherlock was probably thinking along those same lines.

John and Sherlock had spent the better part of three hours in the waiting room. In that time, they’d had no news—although, as John had pointed out a couple hours earlier, they were unlikely to get any until Soo Lin was out of surgery, awake, and well enough to receive visitors who weren’t related to her. They had exchanged few words beyond that; stress, shock, and exhaustion all possessed a numbing effect that made simple things like small-talk take an insurmountable amount of effort.

When Sherlock finally broke the silence that had stretched on for almost two hours, it was apparent to John that neither of them had spent that time in neutral contemplation.

“This is my fault,” said Sherlock.

John shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

“Weren’t you the one telling me this was a bad idea?” Sherlock demanded. “You told me the whole thing was too dangerous. You were saying that before the plan was ever in place. How is that different now?”

“Because it’s too late to undo things now, and it might have done some good,” said John. “Maybe I wasn’t happy to be doing something that carried so much risk, but without Soo Lin’s help, we would wake up tomorrow to find that every single link we had leading us to Moriarty was gone.”

“… Is – is that what I sound like?”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock gestured vaguely. “That. Just—logic. What you just said is the practical, reasonable, measured response to something like this. What I would say. But it just sounds like…”

“… Like?”

“Like something my brother would say. Which is probably why I’m having a visceral reaction to it.”

“I’ll try not to feel insulted that you just likened me to Mycroft,” said John, trying for a lighthearted tone, in the hope that it would help. But Sherlock didn’t laugh—and if he was being honest, John didn’t want to either. His tone changed, more serious. “Look. I know I’m usually in favour of the emotional response over the logical one, between the two of us. But we’re going to fall apart if we go down that road right now. And I know in this moment it just sounds unfeeling and pragmatic, but… I think, in a way, it’s the opposite.”

Sherlock blinked. “You’ll forgive me if I fail to see how.”

“Guilt is the obvious emotion right now,” said John. “But trying to be optimistic, and focus on the potential good, and hope for the best… It’s not logical, and it’s more difficult because it carries risk of pain if everything going to hell. But it’s what Soo Lin was asking of us. It’s why she pushed herself so much to tell us about the sniper’s orders to get rid of Gruner. She had to hope that it was all worth it. I want it to be. So it’s all I’ve got.”

“I hate how eloquent you are on emotion. You make feeling unreasonable seem very reasonable.” Sherlock rubbed his eyes. “I’m just having a difficult time reconciling the fact that Soo Lin very nearly died tonight with my certainty that if we had not accepted her offer of help, we’d have lost any chance we had of actually getting close to Moriarty. We’d have _nothing_ to go on. With any luck, that won’t be the case now.”

John sighed heavily. “We took a risk. Soo Lin took a risk. There’s no point in assigning blame when all it’s going to do is undermine everything we were trying to do tonight.” He looked at Sherlock and tried to gently steer the subject to something less directly painful. “Nothing from Mycroft?”

Sherlock checked his phone despondently. “No.”

Not for the first time that night, John wished he could pat Sherlock on the arm without risking death. “He’ll catch him, right?”

“I’d like to say ‘yes’,” said Sherlock. “If anyone has a chance, it’s my brother. The problem is, we know our sniper’s target, but not an exact time or a location. So I assume Mycroft’s going to have to deploy all of his considerable resources to first determine all of the likely vantage points a sniper might use to get a shot through Gruner’s study window, and then they’re going to have to inspect and guard each location as if they might encounter our sniper at any second. We’re lucky Mycroft has the means to summon an army of people to do all of this, but… it’s hardly an easy interception mission.”

“So there was no point in us joining him. We couldn’t help with something like that.”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “No, we wouldn’t be any more involved than we already are.”

That made John feel ever so slightly better about sitting and waiting. “I suppose waiting here is as good as waiting anywhere, then.”

“Except there are no distractions here,” said Sherlock. He drummed his fingers on his chair agitatedly. “We just sit and wait and no one says anything. I hate hospitals.”

“I think everyone does.”

“I hate them more. I observe more. Everyone is in some state of worry or grief, or they’re ill, or dying, and it’s all over their faces. Every single person in this building is a textbook example of pity, fear, or misery. Everything smells of disinfectant. And stealing ID to get back into surgery for information is more trouble than it’s worth.”

John opted not to question if Sherlock knew firsthand that stealing hospital ID was more trouble than it was worth, and instead said, “I know. But unfortunately actively thinking about how much you hate being here is only going to make it that much worse. Try to loosen up if you can.”

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t do loose. I prefer being tightly wound, not shapeless with extra room for surprises.”

“I’ve gathered,” said John, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “But neither of us can do anything right now. If we were her family, we might have a little more clout. But we’re not, and I’m not a doctor here, nor am I Soo Lin’s doctor, so I can’t even play that card. We’re stuck.”

There was a pause, and then Sherlock got suddenly to his feet.

John looked up at him in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be right back,” said Sherlock, not at all answering the question, and he walked briskly down the hall. John watched him open a door at the end of the hall leading into the stairwell, and vanish.

John took a deep breath and sank back in his chair, waiting and watching the doors in case there was any word about Soo Lin.

It was well over twenty minutes before Sherlock returned. John saw a swish of dark fabric out of the corner of his eye and looked up to see Sherlock brushing past him. He almost stood and said something, but he stopped when he realized Sherlock wasn’t alone.

“She’s somewhere back there,” Sherlock was saying, stopping by the surgery wing doors and gesturing to his companion. “Any information you can give me would be greatly appreciated.”

“Of course,” the other person said quickly—a woman in hospital scrubs with her hair pulled back in a ponytail—before they stepped through the doors.

When they had closed, Sherlock took a few steps back and ruffled his hair. He turned to find John in his seat in the corner, and crossed over to him. He spoke very quietly, so no one else in the sparsely-inhabited waiting room would hear. “When she comes back, and until she leaves again, we pretend we don’t know one another. You keep your head down. Ignore me. Her. Anything she says about Soo Lin. Pretend you’re reading a magazine or something.”

John absently picked up a random magazine off the nearest table, without looking at it. “Why? What’s going on? Who was that?”

“A… friend of mine,” said Sherlock, hesitating before use of the word ‘friend’, as if he wasn’t sure it belonged there. “Molly Hooper. Doctor here. Specialist registrar, specifically, in the morgue downstairs.”

“Morgue?” John repeated, raising his eyebrows. Then: “Oh.”

“Precisely,” said Sherlock. “I really don’t need someone who’s seen you when you were dead to recognize you right now. But she might be able to get us _some_ information. So just pretend you don’t know me, and we should be fine.”

“Okay,” said John, both surprised and not surprised Sherlock was willing to take the risk in asking Molly for help. “Right.”

Sherlock nodded and paced away from John, moving to stand at a distant far enough from John that it looked like they were unlikely to be there together but close enough that John might be able to overhear their conversation.

After a few minutes, the surgery wing doors opened again and Molly Hooper returned. She looked around the waiting room for Sherlock and stepped over to where he stood, speaking softly once she was in earshot.

John ducked his head and kept his face angled down at the magazine he’d grabbed. He strained to hear, listening so intently that it was several seconds before he noticed that the magazine he was pretending to read was open upside-down. He quickly flipped it the right way.

“She’s out of surgery,” Molly said. “Seems like everything went well. Obviously I don’t know too much but it sounds like you were able to get her the help she needed quickly enough that they were able to minimize hypovolemic shock. They want to give her time in recovery, and then when she’s awake and they’ve made sure she’s feeling okay, they might let you go back to check in on her yourself. But the important thing is that surgery is over, and it was successful.”

“That’s…” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Good. That’s good news.”

Molly smiled and awkwardly patted Sherlock’s arm. “If you’re planning on waiting here, it’s still going to be a while, but she should be fine. I’ll check in later and let you know if I hear anything has changed.”

“I – thank you,” said Sherlock.

Molly blushed, and smiled even more. “My pleasure, really. I’m sure waiting has been really stressful.”

“I just generally try to avoid my clients getting killed,” said Sherlock.

“Right,” said Molly, laughing slightly and smoothing her hair a little nervously. “I’m sure you…“

She trailed off, and John risked a glance in her direction. Sherlock had dropped his gaze to his hand, where John could see his phone with the screen illuminated.

Was that a text? A call? Was it a good thing or a bad thing?

“I need to take this,” Sherlock said to Molly, before answering the phone. “Mycroft?”

John tried—really, _really_ tried—to look like a call from Mycroft was meaningless to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Sherlock walk out of the waiting room, with a nod to Molly, and move out of earshot.

John bit his lip, thinking hard. Could he pretend to be going to get a drink or something and follow after? Or would he just have to wait until Sherlock got back to tell him what was going on? What if it was something to do with catching the sni—

“Can I sit here?”

John looked up, to find Molly Hooper standing directly in front of him.

His mind went utterly blank as panic squeezed a strong hand around his throat. “Uh.”

She gestured at the empty seat next to him.

“S-Sure,” said John, before he could figure out a good reason for saying no.

“Thanks.” Molly sat next to him, folding her hands in her lap. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction that Sherlock had gone. After a moment, she said, “He’s really worried, isn’t he.”

John didn’t know what to say. He didn’t say anything.

Molly turned back to him, and smiled nervously. She held out a hand. “You’re John, right?”

It was like he’d lost control of his body. He just sat there, for a long moment, staring at her hand.

He was supposed to hide his identity, especially from people who would see through his name. When Lestrade had realized who John was—had realized _what_ John was—he had been horrified and immediately yelled at Sherlock. Mycroft, John thought, had been mildly disgusted. And unnerved. Moriarty had nearly blown him up.

His life was one where there was an impossible significance to something as seemingly straightforward as a handshake.

Molly bit her lip and frowned anxiously. “Am I wrong? It _is_ John, isn’t it?”

John hesitated, then cautiously reached out, and shook her hand. “… Yeah. John.”

Molly beamed at his reply. “Nice to meet you. Officially, I mean. That is—I recognize you. You were a corpse last time, but I remember your face.” She turned bright red and quickly went on, immediately flustered, “Corpse is probably insensitive. Is it? Sorry. You’re the first person I’ve ever spoken to who was dead in my morgue in a non-permanent way. I mean – it’s – I’m making an idiot of myself.”

John snorted, amused in spite of himself. “No, you’re not, it’s…” But he trailed off. He was an idiot. He was a complete idiot. If she knew his name, and knew that he had been dead the last time they were in the same room, then—

He stared at her. “… You know.”

Molly smiled again. “I work in a morgue. If anyone was going to notice Sherlock bringing the dead back to life just to ask them about how they died, it’d probably be me.”

John opened his mouth, then shut it again. “It seems obvious when you put it like that,” he managed after a moment.

She laughed. “Maybe a bit. But I figured it was probably the sort of thing he _didn’t_ want me knowing, so I just… pretend I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you have any idea how unique that makes you.”

“I just want to help.” Molly shifted, glancing down the hall where Sherlock had vanished. “I know he’s trying to do good things. Help people get justice, even after they’ve died. Maybe the methods he uses are a little – unusual, but… well, it’s still a good thing.”

John smiled at her. “You really understand him, don’t you.”

“Oh, no, not really,” she said, face turning red again. “I help him out sometimes, but I don’t think that means I’m someone he trusts. I don’t count.”

“You definitely count,” said John. “Just as much as any of the rest of us.”

Molly looked at the floor. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not. I don’t think he’d have asked for your help tonight if that wasn’t true.”

Molly shuffled her feet, looking almost embarrassed, but her face had lit up all the same. After a moment, she said, “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t tell him that I know?” asked Molly. “I want him to tell me himself. If and when he wants to. Even if that never happens.”

John nodded. “I can do that. And for what it’s worth—I think he will. Maybe not yet. But I think he will.”

Molly gave him an unconvinced look, which John met with one of total certainty. But then Molly laughed again, cheeks still pink, and finally got to her feet. She brushed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “Anyway. I’d better go before Sherlock comes back and realizes I know who you are. But I hope we see each other again soon.”

John nodded. “Me too. Take care. And thanks again for getting us some news about Soo Lin. I think we were both just about at the end of our rope before you did.”

Molly smiled again. “Anytime. And listen, just… be safe. Whatever it is you two are working on.”

John’s return smile was a little forced as he said, “We’ll try.”

With one last nod, Molly turned and hurried away down the hall in the opposite direction from Sherlock.

John let out a slow breath and sank in his seat.

Nothing about the last few hours had gone according to plan. He really hoped it wasn’t a sign.

He scanned the halls for Sherlock, resisting the urge (strong as it was) to get up and look around for him. But sure enough, after a few minutes, the Detective rounded the far corner.

John got his feet the second he saw him. “Well?”

Sherlock mutely dropped into a chair near John—leaving one empty between them—and folded in on himself, pressing his fingertips hard against his eyes and sighing heavily.

John sat quickly and turned in his chair to look at him. “Sherlock,” he said urgently. “Come on. What—“

“Mycroft caught him,” Sherlock said into his hands.

John’s heart lurched in his chest. “He got him?!”

“Gruner missed a kill shot by a few inches, and a few of Mycroft’s people are going to need a little patching up from the scuffle as they were subduing him,” Sherlock said, voice slightly muffled by his hands. But.” He looked up, and it was like the dread that been hanging on his features for hours had ignited. It was a burning energy behind his eyes. “But we _got him_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOMETHING GOOD HAD TO COME OF ALL THIS
> 
> ~
> 
> I return at last! Thank you all for your patience over the last few weeks. I had knee surgery (an ACL replacement and meniscus repair, to be specific) at the end of August, which ended up being much more time-consuming, tiring, and painful than I was expecting. On the upside, I now have a set of very trendy scars, the surgery has so far been very successful, and I’m well into recovery. Just in time for my second attempt at my candidacy exam for my PhD, haha… just can’t catch a break…
> 
> This chapter ended up being about three times as long as I had originally expected, so I’ve actually moved a large chunk of it to the next chapter. XD There’s just too much happening, haha  
> This also seemed like the perfect opportunity to bring Molly back into the story, if only for a moment. To my mind, there’s no way Molly could have not noticed Sherlock talking to the dead in her morgue. Sooner or later, she’d have unwittingly poked her head into the room in time to see some Very Weird Magic taking place. But Molly is also amazing and I feel like she’d somehow be okay with it.  
> no one deserves Molly  
> she’s the hero we all deserve
> 
> On a different note, I also decided the last few weeks were as good a time as any to go back and fix the scant typos and awkward sentences from the early chapters (before I had the help of my incredible beta [RoseAngel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseAngel/pseuds/RoseAngel%0A) ). I’ll be adding these corrections over the course of the next week, so if for some reason you decide to go back to the earlier chapters sometime in the near future, they are nicer than they used to be. Most of the edits are just fixing horrible formatting, correcting a few accidental uses of present tense (my novel that I almost never have time to work on is written in present tense so I occasionally switch without realizing), and adding in some section breaks where I switch perspective between Sherlock and John (I typically try to insert one of the “~o~O~o~” breaks before switching, for the sake of consistency, but this was something I frequently forgot about when I started writing this story ~2 years ago. You don’t realize how much your writing has grown until you go back and see all your stupid mistakes months later XD). But yeah, editing proved more doable than writing over the last few weeks while I’ve been either feeling like crap because of knee-related-things or because of exam prep being soul-sucking…  
> The next chapter will be up as soon as I can finish it — once my candidacy exam is done (and successful, this time, I dearly hope!) in a couple weeks, I’ll be churning out chapters, so stay tuned!  
> Thank you all so much for reading! Any feedback, as always, means the world to me <3 See you (very soon) with the next chapter…


	41. Dead Men Walking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST, THE RETURN

In spite of the urgency of the situation, and his eagerness to see Moriarty’s sniper in person, both John and Sherlock refused to leave the hospital until a few officers from Scotland Yard could be spared for round-the-clock protection at Soo Lin’s hospital bed. As it was, Mycroft and his resources were concentrated solely on getting the now-captured sniper to a secure facility; Lestrade also had his hands full between managing the scene at the museum and hopelessly following after the Black Lotus members who had fled the museum. In the end, it was a few more hours before Lestrade was able to send a few policemen.

During that time, John slept restlessly in one of the waiting room chairs, his head listing to the side and bobbing every few seconds.

Sherlock didn’t sleep.

But, dreaming or awake, their thoughts were essentially the same.

Soo Lin was alive. The sniper was caught. Gruner had escaped death by inches (less than that, really). And as news of Gruner’s near-murder spread, the rest of the Black Lotus might at last have realized that Soo Lin was right, and scattered. He had a feeling he wouldn’t encounter them again.

But _God_ , it had all been too close.

When Lestrade’s officers at last arrived to oversee Soo Lin’s protection, Sherlock and John left the waiting room and made their way out of the hospital. Night had come and gone while they were inside, and the morning sky was already a bright blue.

As they reached the doors, John asked, “Are we meeting Mycroft now? We’re not the only ones who’ve more or less been up all night.”

“And we’re not the only ones who want to learn as much as we can as quickly as we can,” said Sherlock, checking his phone while they walked. “I think all three of us want answers more than sleep right now.”

“So, we get a cab?”

Sherlock shook his head. “My brother’s already sent a car for us.”

Sure enough, there was a sleek black sedan waiting for them just outside the hospital’s main entrance. They got in the back, and the driver wordlessly departed.

John had expected they would drive to the Yard, or something like it, so he was surprised when the car drove right past the police station. Instead, they continued south through Westminster towards Vauxhall along the Thames, and when the car finally _did_ come to a stop outside a grand, towering building by the water, John gaped first at the building, and then at Sherlock.

“The Secret Intelligence Service?” he said. “Your brother has an in with the SIS?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ve told you before, my brother _is_ the British government. More or less. Enough so that getting clearance for something like this isn’t even remotely difficult for him. And a criminal mastermind like Moriarty sending a sniper to run his errands is close enough to a terrorist threat for the British government. For my brother, at the very least. No one who knows anything about this mess with Moriarty would be stupid enough to think that anything less than the highest levels of security is inadequate.” He popped the collar of his coat, and started forward. “Come on.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

John followed Sherlock as he walked to the doors of a building immediately adjacent to the massive, central branch of the SIS headquarters. They passed through the doors and paused, taking in the entrance (an austere marble hall, with a high ceiling, and an atmosphere that made it feel like the setting of a Bond film) and looking at the few people milling about. To one side of the entry hall, eyes on his phone screen, was Mycroft.

Sherlock made a beeline for him, John at his heels. “You have him here?” he asked, the moment his brother was within earshot.

Mycroft nodded. “Until we can find a more secure facility. I wanted him somewhere more monitored than a standard holding cell. Our security staff undergo a higher level of screening.”

“But you’re sure it’s him?” John said.

“Quite.” Mycroft gestured for them to follow, and Sherlock and John both fell in step just behind Mycroft as he made his way to the elevators along one wall of the atrium. “We apprehended him as he was preparing to execute Gruner. Red-handed, so to speak, which seems confirmation enough to me. We were able to intercept him just as he was about to take the shot. He still tried to fire, but our arrival disrupted things enough to avoid a disaster.”

The three of them stepped into one of the elevators—Mycroft swiping an ID card and pressing a button for a below-ground level of the building—as Sherlock said, “Close call for everyone tonight.”

“Mm. You may be interested to know that, after a bullet blasted through the window of Gruner’s office and lodged itself in his desk about an inch to the side of his head, Gruner informed the police watching his house that he intended to fully cooperate with investigators for the remainder of his trial process.”

“Huh. Fancy that,” said Sherlock sarcastically.

 “In any case, the bullet in the desk was readily available for us to compare with the other bullets we’ve attributed to Moriarty and his sniper,” Mycroft continued. “The weapon was a match to the weapon used on you, John, as well as Shan and Zhi Zhu Yao, to name a few. Not to mention the hit itself, had it been successful, would have been of the same caliber as those past kills we’ve identified as his. There’s a certain skill threshold one has to cross to be able to make a shot from that distance.”

“But I assume he isn’t talking, in spite of being caught ‘red-handed’.”

“Hasn’t said a word,” Mycroft confirmed.

“So, no name.”

“Not yet.”

The elevator opened, and they walked into a brightly-lit hallway. They turned one way, and proceeded along the corridor, stopping intermittently to pass through sets of doors (some with guards standing on either side) that all opened with the aid of Mycroft’s ID.

“Bear in mind, I think there’s a decent chance that he’s someone who’s already died once,” Sherlock pointed out. “Death does not rule people out, in this case.”

“I’m aware of that,” Mycroft replied. “And I’ve already taken it into account. My resources are considerable enough that I can conduct a search of all publically-listed military personnel in sniper units belonging to Britain or any of our allies. We’re focusing on those who have served or trained in the last twenty years or so, with the assumed age limits on our sniper derived from Moriarty’s approximate age.”

“Must be nice having the entire world’s worth of information readily available to you,” John murmured, with the kind of tone one would expect from a man who had a hard enough time with advanced searches on Google.

“Yes, well, I’ve had to be creative at times, to explain _why_ I want to include dead servicemen in the search,” said Mycroft, looking at Sherlock briefly as he spoke. “But the advantage of dealing with someone with a reputation like Moriarty’s is that no one here has any doubt in his ability to hide one of his associates behind a dead man’s name.”

“For once, Moriarty’s reputation has made life a tiny bit easier for us,” said Sherlock.

“Not that it does much to balance out how much trouble it’s caused, but yes, if you want to pointlessly try for some optimism on the subject of Moriarty,” Mycroft replied, with just a hint of sarcasm. They finally stopped outside a room, and Mycroft opened it to reveal an office with an array of video feeds. He ushered Sherlock and John inside. “As I said earlier, the current plan is to keep him here until we’ve established his identity, and then he’ll be charged and subsequently transferred somewhere more secure,” he continued. “We have a few rooms here used for… let’s call it ‘pointed questioning’—“

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You can just say ‘interrogations’, Mycroft. For God’s sake, you’ve already abducted _John_ to interrogate him, so I don’t think we’re going to judge you for ‘pointedly questioning’ Moriarty’s personal assassin.”

John snorted.

Mycroft gave them both a sour look and continued, “As I was saying, the important thing is that he’s isolated, in a secure room, with constant surveillance. The few personal effects he had when we apprehended him are being examined now.” He gestured to the array of screens. “And anything he does or says is being recorded.”

Sherlock stepped forward, looking more closely at the screens, and sure enough one of them showed a solitary man seated at a table. Mycroft transferred the feed to one of the largest screens, and the three of them gathered around it.

The man was muscled and fairly tan, with dirty-blonde hair cropped short. His hands were cuffed, with the restraints secured to the table, but nevertheless he was leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out and shoulders relaxed in a pose one might expect from someone sitting on their sofa at home watching an immensely boring movie. His body language suggested nothing but indifference. Still, there was a kind of measured nonchalance to it—his behavior seemed calculated, but decidedly not intimidated. Controlled, and relaxed, but not careless.

Then again, this _was_ Moriarty’s personal assassin, if not his second-in-command. If he’d seemed any less calm, Sherlock thought he might actually have been disappointed.

Mycroft sniffed. “Persuading him to talk to us might require some work, but knowing who he is might help with that. At any rate, we’re working on getting his identity. Shouldn’t be long.”

“… Moran,” said John.

For a second, no one said anything. Then Sherlock and Mycroft tore their eyes from the screen to stare at John. “ _What_?” they demanded in unison.

“I know him,” said John, barely managing to speak above a whisper. “Or, rather, I remember him.”

“How do you _remember_ him?” said Sherlock, visibly alarmed. “You’d met before you died? What, in Afghanistan?”

John stared at the screen, eyes locked on Moran’s face. “I met him on my first trip into the field after I was deployed. Some scuffle at the edge of the city went bad, and medics were sent in to assist. Moran was there.” He turned to Sherlock, eyes very wide. “I couldn’t save him. He _died_. Right in front of me.”

 

~o~O~o~

 

The facts were these:

 

John Watson, at age thirty-five years, twenty-one days, seventeen hours, and four minutes, had been stationed on active service in Afghanistan for five weeks and two days when the call went over the radio.

Before that particular moment, most of John’s time was spent in the clinic on base or aiding with transport to and from local hospitals. The days were long, and hot, and exhausting, and often bloody. Patients came and went.

Then the call went out. Two civilians killed in a neighborhood of the city, and more injured. A unit of the Coldstream infantry was on the scene, but the area commander wanted medics to assist the injured, and the relatives of the dead. John’s unit was called up. In a few minutes, they loaded their trucks, grabbed their gear, and went.

In the end, John only knew the sniper named Moran for six minutes and eleven seconds.

The scene John and his colleagues arrived at was an unexpectedly quiet one. A number of soldiers and a few translators were clustered around a building they frequently used as a base of operations within the city. A pair of soldiers stood at the door, long-range sniper rifles on straps over their shoulders, smoking cigarettes.

John and the other medics walked quickly, single-file, into the building through the door, each bringing equipment in bags under their arms. They didn’t waste time, getting to work on the injured lying on cots and rugs around the room, while available translators around the room helped reassure family members and explain complaints.

There was some debate at the door as they worked. One of the snipers snapped, “There shouldn’t be half a dozen doctors in an area that just saw fire. This isn’t exactly a good vantage point for us to make sure everything really is clear.” The lead doctor exchanged a few words with them, outlining their orders—while the rest of the medics ignored the conversation altogether, and carried on.

Several minutes passed. The soldiers at the door moved inside to take up watch positions.

Then the sniper who’d first objected said, sharply, “There’s movement up—“

A shot rang out from somewhere on the street, as a bullet flew through a window and embedded itself in the wall two feet to the left of John’s head.

The room exploded into action. Doctors moved patients, soldiers changed positions, weapons were drawn and fired.

The sniper snarled and ground his cigarette into the sand-covered floor with one heel. He knelt, aiming through the window, and fired one shot, then another, then a third, as shots rang out from far off outside. Some soldier in the room said, “I think you got him, Moran.” Another called the base over the radio.

There was a horrible gurgling sound.

John looked towards the source of the noise, in time to see the sniper crumple.

For one second, John just stared in horror.

Then he crawled to the other side of the door, moving to the man’s side, and he got to work.

He automatically started running through the checks, asking the questions that determined what he did and how quickly he needed to do it. Was he breathing? Was he bleeding? Was he conscious?

There was blood all over the man’s dog tags. His surname read _Moran_.

The bullet had passed clean through his neck. It had to be the carotid artery, if he was still conscious and bleeding this much. Which meant the majority of the blood supply to his brain may have already been lost.

“ _Shit_ ,” said John, pressing the wound hard at an angle to make sure Moran could still breathe, and then he called, “I need help with an intubation over here!”

One of his colleagues called back an affirmative, grabbing a kit.

Moran’s mouth moved, forming clumsy, gasping, unintelligible words, but he wasn’t breathing. There was blood in his lungs.

“Don’t you fucking die on me,” said John—but even as he did, Moran’s eyes locked with his and grew dim, like a candle flame being smothered.

And then, just like that, he was gone.

That night, and for many weeks after that, the first face John saw in his nightmares was Moran’s. He’d wake up sick at the sensation of cold sweat on his palms like drying blood, convinced he could feel Moran’s glassy eyes staring at him from a dark corner, mistaking the rustle of wind on the sands outside for the rattle of Moran’s breath.

 

~o~O~o~

 

For all of his intellectual prowess and mental fortitude, Sherlock was having a surprisingly hard time processing the words coming out of John’s mouth. “You’re saying that Moriarty’s sniper—the one who _killed_ _you_ —is someone _you_ tried to save in Afghanistan,” he said.

“Pretty much, yeah.” John dropped into a chair. “He was the first one I lost, actually.”

“Then, do you know his full name?” asked Mycroft, with a sense of urgency that made it clear he was indifferent to the details of _how_ John knew who Moran was.

“Sebastian Moran,” said John, looking up at him. “And he was a colonel, I think.” He looked between Sherlock and Mycroft. “But how could he have ended up here working for Moriarty when he died there?”

“How indeed,” said Mycroft, with the slightest hint of a smile. “This is a pleasant change of pace. And here I was expecting to have to wait all day for anything useful. But a name, and a date of death, is worth something. Excuse me.”

Without waiting for a response, Mycroft stepped out of the room, and Sherlock had to applaud Mycroft’s ability to utterly separate fact from feeling in moments like this. He’d been trying to emulate that skill all his life, with mixed success—but while bringing the dead back to life was Sherlock’s Gift, complete apathy in moments of emotional turmoil was Mycroft’s.

Sherlock watched the door close behind his brother, and then he looked at the screen, and then at John. “Are you… all right?” he asked uncertainly. To him, John was almost always something of an open book, but for once, he couldn’t figure out what thoughts were going around in his head.

“I…” John turned his gaze back to Moran’s face on the monitor. “I don’t know.”

“Because he’s Moriarty’s sniper?”

John nodded stiffly, an odd twitch of the head. “Maybe. Maybe I just wasn’t prepared for the possibility that it would be someone I’d recognize. Now we’re both just… dead men walking.”

Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do.

In many ways, the fact that John had known the sniper’s name changed almost nothing. It told them something about the sniper’s life before he and Moriarty had crossed paths, and it enabled some tentative deductions about the trajectory of their partnership, as well as the timeline. The connection between the sniper and John was (arguably) interesting on some level, but it didn’t change their path forward. The sniper still belonged to Moriarty. The sniper was still the instrument responsible for a handful of known murders and intimidations and attacks. The sniper was still just a loose end that they had managed to exploit, at great cost and risk. The sniper was still their only known means of finding Moriarty.

But Sherlock—as much as he _tried_ to avoid the pitfalls of having feelings—wasn’t so out of touch with the nuances of human emotion that he couldn’t tell that this, for John, changed everything. It made it more personal. And there was obviously some element of guilt, written all over John’s face, that made no sense to Sherlock.

John had struggled at times since Sherlock had brought him to life again, certainly. The cabbie’s death, the boredom, the constant risks—they had all been challenging, but John had retained a sense of determination, if not clear purpose, through all of it. But for the first time in their partnership over the last two months, twenty-three days, nineteen hours, and three minutes, John looked lost. And there were no guidelines Sherlock could follow to try to deal with it.

So he did what he always did. He saw, and observed, and deduced, and hoped that would be enough.

“I think it’s natural, to feel some measure of guilt,” he said, moving to sit on the edge of a table across from John. “It’s a risk that comes with your kind of profession. You feel responsible for the lives you can save and the lives you can’t.”

“I guess.”

Sherlock shifted. “Though I think it’s more than that. For you. In your mind. You often exhibit a great sense of perspective, John, but this seems to have gotten very personal very fast.”

John rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a slow and slightly shaky breath. “You’re right. I’m trying not to be ridiculous about it. But it’s… I mean, I _saw_ him die. And it’s not as if he was the only dead person I’d ever encountered, either. Obviously. I saw more than my share of bodies before and after him. Doctors in my line of work see a lot of patients, and sometimes a lot of death. There were some days when you’d see so many people so quickly that the faces start to blur into one another. Often on days like that, you don’t ever know their names, or anything else about them. There are too many to remember every single person. And if you can, you try not to dwell on it. Because it gets harder to try at all every time you think about the consequences if what you’re able to do isn’t enough. But you tend to remember the first one you lose. I did, at least. So as ridiculous and pointless as it might be, _his_ death is one of the ones that stayed with me.”

“That seems perfectly reasonable to me,” said Sherlock quietly. “Death may not be a straightforward thing in my world, but that does not mean it is without an effect. As you are so fond of telling me, you are allowed to _feel_.”

John’s eyes held Sherlock’s for a moment, before he dropped his gaze. His shoulders caved inwards. “It’s just that…” He pressed his palms to his eyes for a second, then looked at the screen again, expression hard. “That man, right there, killed me. He killed me, months after he died on my watch. There was probably nothing I could have done to help him, but I still would have done anything I could to keep him alive. I still _did_ _everything_ I could. It wasn’t enough, but I tried. And…” He trailed off.

“And?” said Sherlock, sitting forward to try to better read the emotions playing across John’s face.

“And you know what’s really fucked up about it?” John shifted, rubbing the scar over his heart as if it still hurt. “If I had succeeded—if I’d somehow managed to keep him alive—I probably wouldn’t have died. I’d still be – alive. Alive the first time. If he’d lived, I would have lived too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John please stop being so sad  
> John please  
> John no
> 
> ~
> 
> Sherlock’s inner monologue: IIIIIII DON’T KNOW HOW TO COMFORT SAD PEOPLE UHHHHHHHHH HELP
> 
> ~
> 
> Hello at last!   
> Thank you all for your patience and support in my absence since the last update -- it’s been a very eventful couple months for me. First and foremost, I passed my second attempt at my PhD candidacy exam in November (FINALLY), which lifted an enormous weight off my shoulders. Thanks to everyone who sent well-wishes :’D <3   
> I also have been spending an infuriating amount of time working on rehab for my knee. Don’t tear your ACL/meniscus, folks; it really sucks for creativity and productivity. Stretching, strength training, and grumbling about stretching takes up more of my day and mental energy than I care to admit. I have some astrobiology fieldwork coming up next week, so we’ll see if I’ve done enough… (I probably haven’t, but I’ve tried, and therefore no one can criticize me)  
> And I got some much-needed rest, and some time to write, over the winter holidays. Now it’s back to work -- AND, more importantly, back to updates!!
> 
> I hope this chapter was somewhat worth the wait!  
> I was so excited to finally write this chapter, though it took me several re-writes before I was happy with it. But I'm so excited to bring Moran in at long last. I always had the headcanon that John and Moran had crossed paths somehow in Afghanistan - admittedly, not like this, but it’s all that much more exciting if people died in the process, right? … Right?   
> In any case, for once, it’s John who isn’t sure how to go about dealing with his emotions. We’re just trading angst from character to character now… no one is safe… :\
> 
> Next chapter will be up in ~2 weeks, as soon as I get back from fieldwork! Thanks for reading, and for sticking with me despite my ridiculous update schedule. My 2018 resolution is to stick to my self-imposed deadlines for chapter updates, haha…  
> Thanks again for reading and commenting! <3 You’re all amazing :D


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